Defiance
by SilverSiren1101
Summary: Shrike is an ill-tempered assassin not shy about breaking some fingers to get the job done. She loves poking and prodding at her boss, the once-shichibukai Crocodile, but it's only a matter of time until the gator's jaws slam shut and eat her alive. He finally gives her their most interpersonal mission yet and it fails spectacularly. Neither could've imagined the consequences.
1. A Great Start

**Chapter Summary:** Standing between her enraged boss and some poor butler definitely isn't the first mistake in Shrike's life... but it may be her last.

 **Author Notes:** This is my first fic in over a decade, and my first "serious" one at that. So reviews/comments are appreciated! Let me know what you think, please. This was originally a "reader" story but I've since changed it to an original character of mine to make it more accessible.

* * *

This is it—the moment Shrike knows he's finally going to kill her. She's been wondering not _if_ this would happen, but _when_. Surely it's been just a matter of time ever since he'd hired her onto his ship. Just about a year ago, now? A year spent poking and prodding at that steely exterior of his. A year spent testing the nerves of the man she's come to call 'Captain'.

Now, as she stands between him and the whimpering, pitiable man behind her, she sees it's clear the gator's jaws have begun to finally snap shut around her.

Shrike is about to be eaten alive.

"...Agent Butcher." His voice sounds disturbingly cool, but she's spent enough time with him to pick up on its underlying edge. This coolness is just a facade for the undeniable rage bubbling just beneath the surface.

Very rarely does his expression betray any hint of what he's _actually_ feeling. With the way he usually defaults to a flat scowl-surely to match his general disgust for the world around him-Shrike's captain has never been an easy man to read. Sure, events can occasionally curve his lips to a smug grin from time to time, and he never's one to pass up a gloating victory laugh. That's about the extent of the emotional range she's seen from him, though. Smug gloating to abject displeasure.

Until now.

As faint as it is, Shrike would have to have been blind to not recognize the expression creeping into his features. The predatory focus in his dark eyes... how the ends of his scar ever so slightly tilt upward... the near audible gritting of his jaw...

Oh yes.

The once shichibukai, would-be kingslayer and usurper of Alabasta, escaped level-six prisoner of Impel Down, dreaded pirate captain of the Grand Line, Sir Crocodile... is absolutely pissed.

From the moment she's entered his employment-willingly or no is debatable-Shrike's known this would be her fate.

Deference to authority has never been a part of her character. Not to any employer, not to any Marine, and certainly not to any self-important, pompous jackass like _him_. Nearly every word out of her mouth is usually ill-mannered or ill-tempered in some way. Her actions tend not to fare any better, usually just as impertinent as her sharp tongue. Crass, crude, and defiant to a fault, _that_ is Agent Butcher: no-last-name 'Shrike' tried and true.

So, this really is only fitting. A death like this, brutally killed because she dared get in the way of her shitty boss's temper tantrum? Apropos. Her very existence is an act of defiance to life itself. Only pure luck has allowed her to make it this far what with the cards she'd been dealt. Sure, that poor hand had pushed her to develop the skills she's needed to survive thus far, but only just barely survive at that.

Every moment of her life has been spent trying to outrun the specter of death nipping at her heels, creeping ever closer with each passing day. As if she could blame it, though. It's only been trying to reclaim the soul promised to it all those many years ago.

But today it seems that death's perseverance has finally paid off.

Shrike's time has run out.

Not that she'd be going down without a fight. Her captain at the very least deserves one last, double-fingered 'fuck you' before she can comfortably pass on. Even if it's the last thing she ever does.

Death could wait until then.

She meets Crocodile's glare with an almost bored expression on her face- "Yeah, Cap?"-knowing full well that using such a blasé tone will only piss him off even more. Every nickname she's come up with has only seemed to annoyed him. All the more reason to use them then, of course.

As if on cue, his scowl deepens just a hint more. Almost imperceptibly, but it's there as surely as the scar on his face.

"Out of the way, Agent. Now." The callous tone of his voice rakes down Shrike's spine in a way that nearly makes her shiver. She does her best to resist. Showing such weakness would only give him more fodder to work with. As if her pride would allow such a display in the first place.

It's moments like this that remind her of just how very _large_ he is. He's easily two feet taller than her at the very least. So large that she has to blatantly look _up_ at him, craning her neck like some tiny child just to glare into his face.

...His frustratingly handsome face.

' _This is not the time for that! What the hell is wrong with you?!_ '

She quickly banishes those thoughts from her mind. Handsome as it is, that face is just on the verge of killing her right here and now.

"I gave you an order, Agent." The last word is near hissed through his teeth. His anger only grows all the more apparent as this debacle continues, that facade of his losing its integrity with each passing second.

She internally grimaces before mentally downing one last shot of liquid courage. Would that she could will it into existence with desperation alone. Heaven knows just how bad she needs a stiff drink right about now. ' _Here we go.'_

"And what if I don't follow that order?" She flashes him a warm smile, mockingly insolent in its tone. "...You going to kill me?"

She hears his jaw click from all the way over here. His brow gives a single, menacing twitch.

"...You know the answer to that, Miss. Shrike."

Of course she does. She knows he's going to kill her if she keeps up this blatant act of disobedience, though she tries to ignore the way hearing her name in his voice makes her gut flutter. How foolish of her to give him the benefit of the doubt, hoping beyond hope that he'd turn out to be more than just a heartless monster.

If only she could go back in time and stop all this nonsense from happening in the first place. Go back and kill him in his sleep like she originally planned.

This past year as part of his crew... she now knows it must've meant nothing to him.

Rare, candid moments had tempted her to think otherwise. Like how he'd begun to react to her wry humor with the occasional lip twitch; sometimes with a short puff that might've been construed as laughter. Or how he'd taken an interest in her training, too, giving suggestions and the once in a blue moon acknowledgment of her improvements. He'd even started to look at her, _r_ _eally_ look at her, like she was an individual and not just a body that happened to be attached to a weapon.

It'd been moments like those that'd tricked her into thinking he might've thought more of her than just another paycheck to write.

How absurd of her to think that. How absurd of her to think that maybe someone actually _wants_ her around for once. That she isn't just more trash to kick down the road for the next person to find. She'd thought she'd more than proven herself useful enough that maybe he'd come to like her, even just a little bit.

The worst part: she'd foolishly come to like him herself.

How naive to think he could ever feel the same way.

Like everyone else in his life, of course she's just yet another pawn to be used. He'd made that very clear to her from the moment she'd fallen under his flag. The wrenching in her chest and gut only serve to make her angry at herself. As if riffraff like her could ever make him care about her as a _person_? That she's even worth that much in the first place?

So, so, naive.

This feeling of betrayal is hers to blame and hers alone. She'd gotten too comfortable around him. Too friendly. Let her walls down. Trusted him like a fucking idiot.

A soon to be dead, idiot.

She knows now that she could never have meant anything more to him than 'disposable'.

The words he'd spoken to her the night of her contract come back in full force:

 _"In this world, it's used to be used. The weak don't get the luxury of that choice, but_ you, _Miss Butcher, have the privilege of making a different choice entirely. You are_ just _strong enough to determine_ how _you get to be used, and it just so happens there is a spot on my ship for someone with your particular... talents..."_

'Talents' meaning being exceptionally good at killing people. Having spent the past decade on the streets of a frozen, sprawling city, Shrike has the uncanny ability to move about without being seen. In fact, she can make it so others can't 'see' her at all. Instead of having an oppressive presence like others on the high seas, hers is the opposite. She can dimish it to a point that others look right over her as if there's nothing but empty, dead air where a Shrike-shaped person would be.

If she doesn't want to be seen, she's not going to be seen.

Too bad it doesn't work on someone already focused on her, making it utterly useless in this situation. Hell, even if she could slip away, there's nothing stopping him from sandblasting the whole area. Not to mention running would just doom the sniveling man behind her... the entire reason this situation is happening to begin with.

No.

She can't run and hide from this, cheat her way out like she always did.

Not when someone is depending on her.

With a sigh, she draws the saber at her side from its scabbard. Funny enough, it's a gift from Croc himself, given to her in a rare show of generosity. How unfortunate, that it has to be pointed at him in defiance now, rather than deference.

She gives it a flourish, resisting the urge to smile in satisfaction as it rests perfectly in her grip. Its basket-hilt glints a lustrous silver in the sunlight streaming through the courtyard, the feather pattern forming its shape accentuated in a way that can only be described as 'striking'. Truly a beautiful blade. It's a gift she's come to cherish and appreciate more than any other.

It's also one of the main reasons she'd hoped he really had thought more of her than he'd let on.

The saber slashes through the air as she quickly crosses it over the terrified butler behind her; the man she's foolishly thrown her life away to protect. Her left hand comes to rest on her hip, and the casual pose suggests just how resigned to this she is.

In a fair fight, she'd never win. That doesn't mean she doubts her ability to at least ruin his day, though. Her speed should grant her more than enough time to give herself a quick cut-create enough wetness to deal with his logia-and present him a gift of his own in the form of a nasty new scar. Nothing lethal, he'd expect an attack to the vitals. The scar would just something for him to remember her by.

Not having a reputation to precede her, Shrike's prey always doubts her skills; a fact she more than relies on. With her ability to go unseen, those that have witnessed Agent Butcher in action numbers in the single digits. With no one left behind, there's been no one to properly credit her for her work. To the eyes of the world, 'Shrike' doesn't really exist, and someone that doesn't exist can't exactly carry a bounty. Most of her targets see her as just another weak woman trying to play at being a warrior.

Not that she's complaining: it's much easier to kill a man when he thinks you no stronger than a pitiful rabbit.

Her captain's never fought against the same foe with her side-by-side. He hasn't seen her in _real_ action, and she's betting on him underestimating her just like everyone else has. It wouldn't be the first time he has... He certainly had that very first night they'd met. Even choking on the filth in her lungs and being half-starved on breadcrumbs, she'd managed to draw blood from him. Impressed him enough to want her on his ship.

' _Focus, idiot._ '

She mentally shakes the bitter memories from her head, snapping her attention back to the undeniably terrifying man before her.

His eyes have narrowed, his mouth now curved into an almost snarling grimace. "Agent, you'd dare draw your bl-"

"Oh, shut the fuck up." She can't help it. The words push themselves from her mouth before she can consciously realize what they're doing.

' _Oh, well. You're really in it now, dumbass.'_ Might as well go out with a bang. If she's going to die because she's pissed off the wrong person, she's certainly not going to half-ass it.

Shrike rolls her eyes so hard that it throws her head backward. As terrible as the thought of dying is-correction, the thought of being killed by _him_ is-her tolerance for his melodrama has come to a head. "Seriously. Just shut the fuck up. This is more than pathetic."

For the first time since she's known him, his expression abandons any hint of _subtlety_. First, a flicker of surprise. Barely perceptible. She can tell by the minute movement of his throat _almost_ choking on a gasp. The way his jaw goes slack, letting his mouth ever so slightly open.

And then, as quickly as it appeared, it's gone.

Because it's now completely overwritten by pure, undiluted rage contorting his features.

There's but a single twinge of movement of his hand, but Shrike quickly cuts him off before he can respond with either words or-far more likely-a hook through the gut.

"You think I'm going to just stand here and watch you murder this guy?!" Her tone surprises even her, conveying far more potent a venom than she'd felt building within.

Crocodile stiffens, and his menacing aura now rolls off him in waves. He's just barely containing himself. _Barely_. The weeds and brick beneath his heels have started wilting, so angry the world around him is steadily being robbed of any moisture.

How utterly childish. The very sight of it makes her eyes roll all the harder.

"Come on, control yourself!" She gestures at the patch of death slowly creeping out from beneath his shadow. He doesn't look, that piercing glower never once breaking eye contact. Those impossibly dark eyes watch her as steadily as a predator eyeing its soon-to-be dinner. "I know you're pissed off from how I handled that meeting. I totally fucked up, I know. I get that."

She tries not to notice the way his hook shifts, now perfectly catching the sunlight with a menacing glint. Hopefully, her blood would at least stain his clothes, ruin them beyond salvaging. Anything to make her death more of a hassle. ' _So cheery.'_

While her internal thoughts stay sardonic as usual, the words falling from her lips take on a mind of their own.

"But this guy"-She throws her arm out behind her as she begins walking towards her captain with a purposeful strut-"this guy had nothing to do with that! _I_ fucked up, not him!" Whereas her tone before had been mocking, now she practically spits each word. They drip with a venom distilled from the pent-up frustrations of the past year, so scathing it feels as though they're burning her from the inside out. "He's just some butler that happens to work for them! _I_ overreacted!"

She's as worked up as the towering pillar of rage she's marched right up to. Her own anger grants her a burst of unexpected courage, and she uses it to glare right up into his seething expression. There's not more than a single footfall between the two of them. It's not near enough space to react to a killing blow, but she doesn't even care about that anymore.

If he's going to kill her, she just wants to make sure he damn well remembers her for the rest of his days.

The woman that stood up to him. Infuriated him. Humiliated him.

The leather of her saber's hilt squeaks from the sheer pressure exerted by her grip. She's more holding onto it to ground herself amidst the now boiling sea of fury bubbling in her gut than to pose an actual threat against him.

"Will killing him make you feel better, big guy?" She jabs into his chest with a finger from her free hand. "Why don't you just go punch a wall or find a good fuck to get your frustrations out? Deal with your feelings like a god damn adult for once?!"

His eyes widen in shock, brows shooting upwards. This level of brazen disrespect is a surprise, even coming from her. The aura coming from his nearly makes her vomit right then and there.

Hell, the words surprise her too as they flick off her tongue.

But her brain can't quite catch up with her actions.

She suddenly reaches upward, grabbing a fistful of his collar into her grip. The feeling of silicate shifting beneath her fingers is uncanny, more than a little unnerving. He audibly snarls, teeth beginning to show beneath the grimace twisting his lips. Still, she's pressing on. "Heaven forbid you stop and take a deep breath before having a temper tantrum, you arrogant manchild!"

There's a short grinding noise as she plunges her saber down into the dirt between the brick flagstones. It won't be much help this close anyway.

Instead, she releases him with a rather aggressive shove. He looks more than _wild_ as she plants her hands on both hips. She arches backward, leaning back on her heels to look up into his face and fix him with the sharpest glare she can muster.

"For someone who usually acts so cold, you're certainly acting like a Big. Fucking. Bitch."

Shrike has many regrets. Too many.

Now it seems that guaranteeing her death will be excruciatingly painful has been added to that list.

' _There's no way he'll make it quick now. You asked for this.'_

Out of all the things she'd been prepared for, a low and rumbling _growl_ was not one of them. Sir Crocodile is not a man to make overt displays of emotion. For him to vocalize something as primal as _growl_? 'Angry', is an understatement. He's smoldering with a now uncontainable fury, burning away that usual iron-tight control of his.

It's only now that Shrike feels the fear that's sneakily wound its way inside her, lying totally dormant until now.

This is going to hurt.

This is going to _really_ hurt.

From her periphery, she sees him begin to raise his hand.

Is he going to grab and impale her?

Desiccate her right then and there?

Her mind begins to race, illustrating hundreds of scenarios each more gruesome than the last. She can't even move. The fear has her gripped tight, an invisible chain keeping her rooted in place. Every muscle fiber strains against the sudden paralysis, all in vain. Even if she _could_ move, he'd catch her easily, hold her still and tortuously blast her limbs away like some industrial sandblaster.

Not that she'd ever seen him do that to anyone, but as ruthless as he is, she doesn't put torture past him.

A shadow casts over her face as he raises his hand higher.

All she can do is close her eyes, resign to this fate with grace. The faint taste of blood fills her mouth as she bites her lips. She forces them closed with her teeth, not daring to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

She begins to count the seconds until impact.

' _One…_ '

Her limbs begin to tremble, an utterly involuntary reaction. She curses herself for it nonetheless.

' _Two…_ '

There's a fierce sting as her nails dig into her palms.

' _...Three?_ '

Why is he prolonging this? ' _Just get this over with please!_ '

 _'...Four? ...?'_

She cracks an eye open warily, only for both to shoot open wide in unison.

Crocodile is gone.

Where before her had been certain death is now nothing but empty space.

The anxiety hits her as if his hook has gutted her himself. ' _...From behind?!'_

She makes a rapid pivot, simultaneously yanking her saber from the dirt. It comes up in a defensive position across her midsection as she drops to a more reactive stance.

He's... not there either.

The only thing there is the damn butler. She continues to whirl around, survival instincts still running hot. He could be anywhere around her just waiting for her guard to falter...

But as the minutes pass, she knows he's well and truly gone.

"What... what in the actual hell?" She chokes the words out to no one in particular, a mixture of sheer relief and shock moving her tongue on its own.

Shrike briefly considers turning on her perception haki to see if he's lingering somewhere, just out of sight. She'd only 'awoken' it a few weeks ago, an exciting discovery during a particularly dangerous mission. Ever since then, though, it's been nigh uncontrollable. Turning it on in an environment like this would just leave her senses overwhelmed, and her a curled up mess on the ground.

She quickly decides against it.

A sudden burst of nervous laughter explodes into the disturbingly still courtyard, tearing itself from her throat. It carries an acrid taste of bile to her tongue, and she suddenly feels the pressing need to hurl.

All at once, the ground rushes up to greet her. Her knees crack hard against the ground, followed by the clang of her saber rattling onto the flagstones. While she doesn't feel the pain in her knees, the one in her gut is nigh overwhelming. It feels like she's taken a punch to the torso, stomach both impossibly tight and roiling at the same time.

Her chest aches, too, that latent anxiety of hers rearing its ugly head after she'd been doing so well to keep it dormant. Each breath she takes feels stolen from the air around her as her lungs heave for relief.

She really had been terrified. As much as she'd lied to herself about it, there's no denying the fear coursing through her veins now.

But as soon as she feels the prickling of tears at her eyes, it all turns to _rage_.

There are few things Shrike hates more than tears.

The anger from before had been mocking. Now? This is genuine. A wave of real, burning anger. Both at him and with herself. How dare he act like a child!? How dare she _cry_ like a child!?

With a snarl, she grabs the blade next to her and rises to her feet. She holds the saber aloft to get a look at her face in the blade's polished reflection. The pale yellow eyes-almost like metallic brass-she normally finds offputting have lost much of the effect from the wet tears ringing them. The bags beneath them appear much more egregious than usual, too.

Strands of her ashen hair have come loose from her bun, falling forward to frame her face. The tone of her skin-usually a warm ivory-looks frighteningly pale, and even the light rosiness of her cheeks has lightened somewhat.

Frankly, she looks like shit. She honestly can't remember the last time she'd had an actual restful night of sleep, one that hadn't been plagued by nightmares or general restlessness. Given the events of today, she doubts tonight will be any different.

A weight suddenly drops into her stomach.

Tonight.

' _Where the hell do I go?!'_

She can't just return to the ship, can she? Crocodile had let her go... or at least, she _thought_ he did, but that didn't mean he wouldn't just kill her the next time he sees her. His 'mercy' can only extend so far. The crew probably wouldn't protect her from their Captain, either. Most had an openly antagonistic relationship with her anyway, though that was mostly her fault. They'd probably just be happy to see her gone.

' _Good riddance. They never wanted me anyway. No one has.'_

But...

All her belongings are still in her bunk.

' _Shit.'_

Shrike sighs. A long, exhausting sigh that feels more like her soul leaving her body than just air. She'd taunted him so aggressively, went that far, fully expecting him to kill her, and now... Well, she isn't dead.

An odd feeling settles into her chest. It's almost as if she's... disappointed?

To have been so ready to die, only for nothing to happen? She's somehow both relieved and indescribably frustrated all at the same time.

' _Do I want to die? I don't even know... I'm just...'_

No, she knows. Her eyes tell it all.

Tired.

Shrike is just so... so very tired.

This is exhausting. Life is exhausting, always on the run, always fighting. Never any time to just stop and take a relaxing breath. In her thirties and she's been running for practically two-thirds of it. It's no wonder she's tired of _being_ tired. She doesn't want to _die_ so much as she craves the rest death brings.

But she can't ever rest. Death will catch up.

A particularly loud sniffle behind her brings her back to her senses.

' _Oh, right. The Butler."_

She turns to get a better look at the man she'd been so ready to die for, and he is so... unbutler-like.

The stereotypical monkey suit he has on is so poorly fitted, she struggles not to break out into laughter. It's practically tearing at the seams over his strapping frame. How he ever forced himself into it, she'll never know.

His blonde hair is poorly groomed, like he tried to slick it back with a product he's never touched before. Not to mention he appears to be quite young for a job that typically attracts the old or infirm, looking to be in his twenties. Definitely younger than she is.

But aside from the undeniably beautiful blue hue-so pale, almost like ice-of his eyes, there really is nothing special about him.

He quickly scrambles to his knees, prostrating himself before her.

Shrike practically flinches, immediately feeling uncomfortable by the direction this situation has turned. ' _Oh no, please don't.'_

"THANK YOU VERY MUCH MA'AM." He manages to squeak out in a timbre that makes his voice crack.

' _Eugh._ ' She groans, rolling her eyes in an obvious show of distaste. "Get up. I don't have the patience for your groveling."

It's not lost on her how very much like her captain she sounds. The realization makes her a bit more uncomfortable than she wants to admit.

"SORRY MA'AM SORRY!" He nearly faceplants into the brick as he rushes to scramble to his feet.

She shakes her head and turns away. Her focus trains onto a small bird as it hops about the courtyard fountains, instead. If only it was the only other thing here. Animals are simple, much more preferable than people.

Especially when compared to annoying grovelers like this guy.

"Just get out of here, maybe find a different boss. Your current one is a shady piece of work." Though she almost laughs as she says it, noting the hypocrisy in her advice.

 _'Telling a glorified maid his boss sucks? What the hell does that make me then?_ '

No, really. What _does_ that make her?

Returning to the ship most definitely meant walking right back into certain death, but it's not like she has much of a choice. There's nowhere else for her to go.

Maybe, just maybe... maybe he'd give her another chance?

She puffs a short laugh to herself as soon as the thought crosses her mind. ' _I really am crazy.'_

"Wait! Where are you going? That guy could be anywhere!" She hadn't realized she'd begun walking away until the butler calls out.

"Yeah, yeah I know. Don't worry about me. Just, worry about yourself, alright? Get a better job." She tosses her hand into the air in a mocking sign of farewell. "I have a date with death."

Death.

The man that didn't kill her.

Her captain… Sir Crocodile.


	2. Mistakes Were Made

**Chapter Summary:** Things aren't as obvious as they had seemed, and a million questions fly through Shrike's head. Why didn't he kill her? Why had he blown up at just a butler? Could it be the only thing wrong here is her?

 **Author Notes:** Still with me? Good! Reviews/comments, as always, are appreciated.

* * *

' _I_ _am nobody_. _Always was and always will be.'_

Shrike repeats her mantra in her head, the magic words that let her slip into the _unseen_ side of the world.

It's entirely psychological, she knows, but there's no denying the reliance she has upon the phrase. It's far easier to become invisible when she reminds herself just how truly invisible to the world she actually is. Not that it bothers her much. In fact, she tends to prefer it this way. Her job is far easier when she can make herself just another overlooked passerby on the street; a flicker at the edge of one's vision, no more pertinent than a gnat.

She repeats the phrase in her head, willing herself out of wandering eyes. A soft smile plays upon on her lips as the familiar feeling of her shroud tingles along the surface area of her body. It dances featherlight on her skin, an impossibly thin, silk-like cowl of nothingness. She never could quite explain it, this ability of hers. When she wants to hide, she simply _can._ Entirely through willing alone. It's almost as if it were an inverse _conquerer's haki_ , granting her a negative presence instead of an overpowering one.

Regardless of what it is, all Shrike cares is that it works.

She slips into a crowd of people, joining a throng of civilians making their way to the port. The actual name of this town has long since slipped her memory, as utterly inconsequential as it is. This place is just yet another stop for business, run by yet another corrupt cabal of shady businessmen and selfish pirates. Meaning that, of course, it's just the right kind of place for a man like her captain-' _can I still call him that?'_ -would want to stop at.

This is how it always goes. While he works to drum up some negotiations-make a powerplay, whatever-Shrike conducts his real 'business' behind the scenes. 'Business' just being code for something he wants and inevitably expects her to go and fetch for him. Whether that something is fodder for blackmail or something grimmer like a _life_ , she knows better than to ask questions. All Croc cares is whether she gets the job done, and all _she_ cares about is whether she gets her promised dinner that night.

There's really no room for questions between the two.

Unfortunately, after that little stint in Alabasta, _former_ shichibukai Sir Crocodile's name doesn't quite carry the same weight that it used to. The climb back up to his former status will be a long crawl, one he'll have to fight tooth and nail-' _hook?'_ -for.

Which is where someone like Shrike comes in. An unknown body like her is the perfect tool to execute his plans behind the scenes.

A tool.

Nothing more.

Shrike clearly isn't envious of the situation he's in now, and she certainly doesn't pity him for it either. The whole thing was entirely his fault, and damn if it isn't about time he learned to be responsible for his actions. Men, _users,_ like him always think themselves untouchable; immune to consequences. To have his plans blow up in his face like they did earlier today... she almost finds a sense of glee in it. Schadenfreude.

...Even if it had been almost entirely her fault...

A frown tugs at her lips as something begins to constrict about her gut. Something...

' _No!'_ Her expression quickly turns to a sour grimace, her pace increasing as the self-directed anger drives her forward. ' _I do_ not _feel guilty about this!'_

But try as she might to ignore the weight settling into her stomach, there's simply no denying it. She'd been so excited to work with him- _together_ -when he first pulled her into his this morning for the mission briefing. It was the first time he'd ever asked for her direct presence during one of his 'business' meetings, and she'd been more than thrilled to accompany him. He'd practically handed her a one-way ticket to getting into his good graces!

She had to go and fuck it all up then, of course.

' _What the hell, me. Since when did you go from hating him to dogging after his approval?'_

The cold heat of hypocrisy simmers in Shrike's chest. She used to hunt people like him for sport. Sneaked into their homes, slit their throats before they even realized what was going on. Everyone from corrupt marines to slaves to raiding pirates lords, so long as they were blackhearted and cruel they were all fair game in her hunt. Hell, that was how the two of them had even met!

And now she's so desperately trying to make him _like_ her?

Loathe as she is to acknowledge it, there _is_ a none too small part of her that admires the man. _Greatly_ , admires him.

She sighs, shoulders easing as some of the anger escapes on her breath. For all her captain gets on her nerves, fills her with indignation, makes her feel so very insignificant... Shrike really does _like_ him.

His combat strength and prowess are matched by but only a few, and the sheer destructive power granted to him by his logia is to be both feared and awed in equal measure. Yet, he wields it with such a refined grace-such absolute control-that she can't help but regard him with a sense of _reverence_.

But what she respects of him the most is his cunning.

He hasn't made it as far as he has in this world on power alone. No, most of his success has been due to his frighteningly sharp intellect. Crocodile poses the kind of intelligence so lethal and intense it can be seen in the light behind his eyes. He's somehow always five steps ahead, and clever enough to let his prey think it's only one or two. They're already dead by the time they find out. As an accomplished killer herself, how can she _not_ respect that?

And honestly? As a person, he really isn't _that_ bad.

Despite having the reputation of being a ruthless monster-and barring that childish display earlier-he really isn't one. Not entirely, at least. Crocodile rarely kills in spite or in number, preferring to let his victims live as a reminder of what happens when they dare cross him. The ones he _does_ kill at because they're either too stubborn or too stupid to learn, simply just too dangerous. Hell, the only reason she'd been able to join his crew in the first place is because he chose to spare her at the time.

Even when it comes to utilizing her talents as an assassin, Croc tends to err on the side of caution. He sends her on hits more selectively chosen than not, and with orders to minimize casualties as much as possible. Given that the targets he directs her to kill or rob are never good people to begin with, Shrike likes to think that-in a twisted kind of way-the words is a little bit of a better place with each successful mission.

Yes, Crocodile is powerful. Yes, he's definitely ruthless. But it's not like he's wantonly slaughtering innocents or razing cities to the ground. Still, Shrike has more than heard of his crimes in Alabasta and knows just what he's capable of on a more... grand... scale, but from what she's experienced of him personally, he's honestly quite charming.

Shrike hums wistfully as she continues her leisurely stroll back to the ship. She's in no rush, especially if what might be waiting for her is a grisly demise. Her thoughts keep wandering back to this damnable infatuation she has with her captain, instead.

Charming... When not in a foul mood, he's almost friendly towards her. Well, as close to 'friendly' a man like him can be described as, anyway. He'll slip into an easier tone, one that no longer rakes down her spine but rather lightly brushes up it. His casual aura leaves her feeling almost at ease, more willing to let her guard down.

And his _smile_ , oh heavens his smile. Such a rare sight to see, but damn does it make her heart flutter. It'd been nothing like she'd expected-a disturbing, menacing sneer-but instead something devilishly handsome. The way his eyes and scar crinkle upwards gives her pause every time it happens, and she's been chasing after that expression ever since the first time she'd seen it. She exceeds every once in a while, her scathing quips and the sardonic humor he'd initially refused to acknowledge occasionally eliciting a suppressed grin, or even the quietest puff of a laugh.

Her favorite moments are where Croc invites her into his office, not for an impersonal briefing, but to discuss her assimilation into his crew or even her growth in combat. He always seems to be in a good mood for those, pouring her a cup of coffee and asking if she has everything needed to do her work properly.

He routinely makes sure she has everything needed to perform her duties, providing her with any weapons, armor, devices, poisons, or any other random tool she could ever possibly need. Anything for any situation she may find herself in, no matter how improbable. Many times it's even unsolicited, what with her finding a new toy and note in her quarters.

Sometimes, he hands her the bundle himself-' _...try this'_ -giving her tips on how to best use whatever the hell he happened to be pushing on her. His intuition is right most of the time, in an uncanny sort of way. More often than not, Shrike starts the day with yet another piece of equipment that fits perfectly into her arsenal.

On his own beri, too. Even though Shrike's employment guarantees quite a handsome paycheck, he insists on covering any 'work' related expenses separately. What she does with her hard-earned money is up to her discretion, not to mention he often throws in bonuses for exceeding his expectations.

That, she likes the most. Not the bonus. The exceeding his expectations part.

Hell, he was even the one who'd recognized her innate talent for swordplay and given her the saber that now hangs at her side. His right hand, Daz Bones, had then personally taken up her training, much to the captain's approval.

It's almost like he cares, in a way.

About her.

But then she had to go and mess it all up.

Made him so fuming mad he'd just about killed her.

...Except... he hadn't.

Maybe... maybe she really did mean more to him after all.

In the heat of the moment, Shrike had been all but sure her life was about to end right then and there.

But it hadn't.

In the end, she's now walking down this street, lost in her head. Alive.

There _has_ to be a way to rationalize this.

Even in this act of defiance, she had to be useful to him still. He loathes discarding a perfectly good pawn. She's just been too much of an investment for him to toss away over her first major act of rebellion, as big as it was. That's all.

She'll return to the ship and he'll either finish the job and actually kill her this time, or she'll be severely punished and killed the _next_ time she does something like this.

It's as simple as that... No ulterior motives or meaning. Nothing pointing to him _feeling_ anything for her... That's just insane.

Still, Shrike feels on edge. Her fingers pick at the hilt of her saber, dancing restlessly along the leather wrappings about the hilt. There are still far too many questions left in this puzzle for her to relax. That outburst of his with the butler had been entirely uncalled for... and also completely unexpected.

The more she mulls it over, the more she realizes just how out of character it had been for him. To lose his composure like that?

Crocodile is a man that always maintains an air of implacability, one that runs cool rather than hot. Being around him makes you feel as if your very presence is an inconvenience, but not like he'll explode at any second from a misplaced word or any other slight. No, Shrike's boss is a predator of impeccable patience, always waiting for the opportune moment to strike. What happened earlier... that... wasn't _him_.

Either he had hit some sort of breaking point or something more is going on. Judging by the sinking feeling in her stomach, Shrike's betting it's the latter more than the former. She'd definitely missed something. The only question is what.

The entirety of her day begins to play in her mind, a steady stream of images and scenes stretching back all the way to early this morning.

 _Woke up._

 _Rolled out of bed._

 _Breakfast._

 _Called into his office:_ " _...you will be attending to me in place of Daz today. I assume you will be on your best behavior..."_

Though she'd thought it a bit weird at the time-Daz cut such an intimidating figure that he's the perfect choice for playing the 'accompanying muscle' role-that hadn't stopped Shrike from being almost giddy with excitement.

And also exceedingly proud.

This was the first time he'd ever asked for something like this from her. As soon as the request had processed in her mind, she'd gone slackjawed, mouth just about thudding to the floor. Such a request meant that he was finally _trusting_ her, giving her far more responsibility than normal. And, not only that, he wanted _her_ at this side. _Her_ presence, specifically.

Despite it being against her very nature, Shrike had resolved to be as respectful and obedient as possible to ensure everything went smoothly; so desperate to prove that his trust in her hadn't been misplaced.

Then she cocked it all up.

' _Stupid. How could you ever had expected yourself to play the part of the subservient 'muscle'?! You can't even control_ yourself!'

It really had been foolish to believe she could have lived up to his expectations. She's so unrefined, so rough around the edges compared to his classy composure, that it really had been a fool's errand. He's the master chess player while she's just the pigeon kicking over the pieces and shitting all over the board. Shrike has street smarts and a whole bunch of knives, not high-brow rubbish like business etiquette or social customs. Staying out of sight and killing people are about the only two things she excels at.

Yet, despite the disastrous altercation with the butler and the close of the meeting itself, everything had been pretty okay up until that point. He'd prepped her on his plans what he expected from her, which was to stand there and look as impassive as possible. Should he order it, she was to stealth away and ransack the manor for whatever he needed.

He really should've just asked her for that in the first place, then this whole mess would've have happened.

It was an _'easy'_ job, he'd said. Laughable now.

Shrike grumbles and kicks at a can on the ground. Only now does she realize that she's been _stomping_ along.

' _Am I being too hard on myself?'_

' _Yes...? Maybe.'_

Honestly, _he_ should have known better than to expect anything else from her.

But that didn't make the guilt sting any less.

The job really was supposed to have been an easy one. Crocodile had arranged to meet with the aging head of the D'Lore family at their estate in the center of town. The D'Lore's-as he had informed her-are a well-established and respected family in the black market trade for at least several islands out. D'Lore senior has been steering the family on the path of consistent success, even snagging illicit trade deals with some of the more... morally grey... marine captains.

Unfortunately for the family's legacy, the young heir set to succeed is anything but the man his father is. Known for both his cocky arrogance and unwarranted savagery, Hawken D'Lore is not the kind of person the other players in the game want among their ranks. He needs to be quickly leashed and tamed if the D'Lores want any chance to maintain their respected status and amicable relationships.

Crocodile had seen the opportunity to swoop in and rein the little shit in, hopefully winning over both the D'Lores and their allies alike. That business meeting today had been the first step of his plan.

A preliminary meeting with D'Lore senior on his sadistic asshole of a son...

* * *

"Wow." The word pushes dryly through Shrike's lips before she has time to catch it. It's just _that_ bad.

The mansion is sprawling, stretching out in too many directions at once like some cancerous growth. It's tacky and garish, such an obvious show of affluence, wasteful for the sake of being wasteful simply because _they can_. This is the exact kind of wanton wealth that sets her teeth on edge, making her just a little more aware of the sharpness of her canines.

The white walls of the manor glow radiantly in the sun, almost blinding. It's all the tackier given the surrounding manors-much more reasonable in size, too-are all tasteful brownstones. The front courtyard itself is the size of the neighboring buildings, and is accentuated with a long pool of water. The bottom of which shines in shimmering gold and turquoise from elaborate tile mosaics. It boasts marble fountains, each spewing pristine water, spaced every few meters. All are topped with gilded statuettes more garish than the last.

The D'Lore's must have wanted the attention, clearly.

Each dormer and gable and trellis and arcade and whatever the hell other useless architecture this house apparently needed all catch her eye. Each and every one of them such an obvious point of infiltration. Stupid rich people always make her job so much easier, not realizing that the more elaborate the house, the more parts that needed watching.

Tiny farmhouses with but a single floor and two windows are the _real_ challenges to break into. With mansions like these, it's practically like walking straight into a department store. Not to mention just looking like the family's _Help_ generally makes the guards let you strut right in.

This is the exact kind of place that used to be her hunting grounds.

"Your assessment, Agent?" Crocodile's smooth voice startles her from the hyper-focus she'd slipped into. She turns her chin to look up at him where he stands to her right. While the look on her captain's face is rather impassive, the way his eyes bore into her is anything but. He seems... rather invested in what she might have to say.

She tries to ignore how that makes her feel.

Which is pretty warm, by the way.

"What? On how much of an eyesore this place is, or the laughable security? I have choice words on both." She internally curses at herself as soon as the words leave her mouth. ' _Act professional, idiot. You're not going to impress him with stupid jokes.'_

Nonetheless, the briefest hint of an amused smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Security, Agent. The choice taste in this villa has hardly escaped my attention."

Shrike blinks, staring at him a little wide-eyed before she realizes what she's doing. ' _Did he actually find that funny? Wait. Focus! He asked you a question.'_

She clears her throat a few times before slipping back into the steely composure she'd been practicing all morning. "Apologies, Sir. Ah, security-wise... we haven't even stepped past the front gate and I've spotted no less than six infiltration points. It's rather trite, really. I can be in place before you even sit down at the negotiation table."

His eyes slip closed, and he makes a low, rumbling sound of acknowledgment. "An apt assessment..." She tries not to jump as his hand falls to her shoulder, just as hard as she tries not to flush from the unexpected physical contact. "...But you will be attending with me in person today, Agent."

Her mouth really does go slack-jawed this time, not even bothering to disguise the surprise painted clear on her face. "R-Really? You're asking me to _be_ in there with you?" She swallows, trying her best not to stammer. "Not to be disrespectful, Sir, but you really should reconsider."

This plan has 'bad outcome' written all over it. The only things subtle about Shrike are her blades, and her mouth is as far from that as possible. Being thrust into a social situation? Where she's expected to remain stoic and polite? This'll be nothing short of disastrous. What if this turns into a fine dining thing and she had to know the difference between inane drivel like a big fork versus a little fork? They both do the same thing!

But his dark eyes meet hers, glinting with an expression she can't quite describe. He breaks into that charming grin of his that tells her he knows more to this than he's letting on. "I am quite sure, Miss Shrike."

Her name on his tongue always manages to convince her. He could be lying straight to her face, obvious as can be, but when he drops her name as sweetly as this? How could she not reconsider?

' _You're hopeless. Spend years totally alone and now just hearing your own name makes you come running.'_

But the words out her mouth are far more polite.

"...As you wish, Sir." Though she questions his judgment, the promise Shrike made to herself earlier prevents her from sounding any further objections. He has expectations, and she so desperately wants to meet them.

He gives her one last look from the corner of his eye before continuing towards the manor's gates.

As garish and unnecessarily _extra_ as the rest of the place, the gates are needlessly high and formed of wrought iron bars. The tips of which-sharpened spades-have been gilded with some sort of metallic enamel that makes them shine golden in the sunlight. It's probably real gold, too, just going by the fact that the gatehouse appears to have been carved from _marble_.

It's such a disgusting misappropriation of wealth that Shrike can't help but grumble. It really could have all gone to much better use.

' _Who the hell needs a marble guardhouse?'_ The D'Lores, apparently.

All of it puts a foul taste in her mouth.

This is the exact type of rich she hates the most: wasteful, arrogant, classless. It's the exact of opposite of her captain. Crocodile is 'wealthy', not a wasteful rich bastard like this _lovely_ family. He uses his wealth wisely, rather than shoving it into useless gilded doorknobs. Liquid assets are always worth more than gold leaf and tasteless gems inlaid into gaudy balustrades. A fundamental tenant of basic economics that Crocodile practices with expert care.

Yet, Shrike can't help the feeling of nostalgia settling into the back of her mind. This place is remarkably similar to where the two of them first met; when he'd tried to poach one of her kills. ' _I wonder if he's thinking the same... Probably not.'_

She doesn't have much time to reminisce as a contingent of guards rushes to meet them at the gates. They're all adorably dolled up in tacky uniforms emulating the typical Marine attire. Though rather than the typical white and blue, these dolts look almost offensively ostentatious in scarlet hemmed with gold trimmings.

Shrike silently clicks her tongue behind closed lips as she notices they're all clearly armed. A standard rifle lies slung across each their backs, with the matching pistol holstered at their sides. ' _Small fry.'_

A man she can only assume to be the guard captain-given the silly cap on his head-steps forward holding a neatly unfolded letter. He clears his throat before standing at attention, and she struggles not to roll her eyes.

"You must be Sir Crocodile. We've been informed of your scheduled visit today, but received no such notice of a plus one..." The man's eyes shift over to settle on Shrike, and it takes every bit of willpower for her to not stick her tongue out at him. Instead, she politely tilts her head forward and waits for her captain to respond.

This is already just _so_ exhausting.

Crocodile makes a low noise-almost like a hum-clearly in amusement. "Please, do not mind my attendant. This is Miss Shrike. She will be assisting in my affairs this afternoon."

At that, she bends forward in a slow, respectful bow, making sure to keep her eyes lowered and coy. "Pleased to meet your acquaintance. I assure you I am quite harmless."

She makes sure to flutter her eyes directly at the guard captain's face, giving him a warm and demure smile. Shrike has played this game many times before, acting the role of the innocent servant girl to sneak inside her prey's home. Only this time, she's not sneaking in at all. They'll be letting her waltz right through the front door.

The man fidgets, a hint of red sneaking into his facial features. "Um, well. Ma'am, you _are_ armed." He gestures at the saber hanging at her side.

' _Good thing he can't see the knives in my sleeves or boots...'_ Her expression remains warm as she scrambles to think of a response. Luckily, her captain already has one prepared.

"One can never be too careful, what with a reputation like mine." That charming grin splits across his lips, tilting the edges of his scar upwards in the way she's come to find so very handsome. Somehow both charming and predatory at the same time, it's a grin that shows just how trite he finds the skittering of the pitiful mouse before him. "Miss Shrike is simply a pretty face. The blade is just for show. She's more like to trip over it than fell an opponent."

' _Pretty?!'_ Shrike's face begins to grow just as red as the guard captain's. She quickly stamps those thoughts down, knowing full well Croc is only putting on a show just as she is. As if someone like him thought of _her_ that way.

He suddenly raises his hand, and she bites down a giggle as the man before him instinctively reaches for his gun. The terror is written clear on his face.

"Even so, I need no weapon. I very much am one myself." His hand suddenly shifts into a stream of sand. He flicks it in a circle around him, and Shrike watches in amused wonder as it strips the gold enamel off one of the gate's tips. ' _S_ _how off.'_

Silence descends upon the scene. The guards all squirm and look at each other as their captain remains frozen in fear.

Shrike is _this_ close to bursting into laughter when a new voice rings out across the courtyard.

"Captain Reynald, are you inconveniencing my guest?"

Her gaze shifts past the gaggle of flustered guards. A rather dour looking man stands at top of the wide steps leading to the manor's utterly massive front door. His grey hair carries hints of auburn, especially in his well-groomed and angular beard. He's quite a large man; burly, yet still trim despite his apparent age. The excess grey has her putting him at being older than her captain. Even from this distance, she can make out the piercing blue of his eyes, almost like ice.

This can only be D'Lore senior, Torin.

The guard captain- _'Reynald?'_ -quickly snaps into a salute, struggling to stifle the fearful trembling wracking his limbs. "Apologies, Sir!" Though Shrike's not quite sure which "Sir" he's currently addressing. He swiftly stands aside, to which the other guards follow in suit, allowing the duo passage.

Crocodile begins his casual saunter to the manor, but not before flashing Reynald a blink and you miss it look conveying nothing but pure contempt. She tries not to laugh as she follows.

The fountain stretches along to their left as he chooses to take the right side. Shrike quickly steps alongside him, her pace having to be one slightly more than what she found comfortable to keep up with his long strides.

"Truly, the perfect picture of innocence, Agent." His voice sounds low in her ear as he speaks under his breath, careful to keep his gaze focused forward.

She follows his lead despite the effort it takes to not break into a wide grin. One not too dissimilar from his before. "I aim to please, Sir."

He hums a low note in what she can only hope is amusement.

The pair reach the stairs with no further incident, where D'Lore gruffs out an apology at the misunderstanding from his security.

"I understand, D'Lore. Good help is difficult to find." Crocodile puffs a short laugh, dark gaze meeting Shrike's from the corner of his eye.

Her lip twitches before she can contain it. ' _You ass.'_

D'Lore merely laughs, stepping forward to take her hand. She offers it to him with a dainty bat of her lashes.

"Now, now. This lady certainly appears to be quite capable." He brings her hand to his lips, and she struggles not to hurl as the beast inside her throws itself against its shackles. It slavers with a thirst only this man's blood could satiate. She would've happily killed him back in the day. Back before she became _professional_.

Instead, Shrike just laughs. A delicate little sound that makes her want to slap herself. "I do try, Sir."

He releases her hand, but she freezes as she catches sight of her captain over his shoulder. Crocodile's eyes have narrowed, sour scowl clear on his face. It disappears right as D'Lore turns around, quickly replaced by that charming grin.

' _Shit, did I mess up? Too friendly with the enemy? I knew this was a bad idea!'_ She flashes him an exaggerated shrug from behind D'Lore's back. ' _What do you want from me?!'_

He doesn't address it, continuing to chat with the D'Lore head of house. Though from the way his eyes meet hers for but a split second, it's clear he saw.

"Come, come. We have much to discuss." D'Lore beckons the two into the manor.

The interior is just as obscenely opulent as the exterior. He takes them down the foyer which seems to stretch on for what looks like half a mile. As they pass room after pointless room, the urge to knock over the occasional decorative urn rises in her. Everything is just so frustratingly wasteful. The amount of money that went into the gold leaf pressed into the wainscoting alone could probably feed the entirety of this city for weeks on end.

Yeah, this place definitely reminds her of where she first met Croc.

 _"Stand down Daz... this one is interesting..." The scarred man orders, eyes flicking between the blood running down his wrist and the bladed claw pressed to her throat..._

Shrike is snapped out of her daydream as D'Lore ushers them into a parlor room of sorts.

Crocodile and D'Lore sit opposite of each other at the table, while she chooses to settle herself against the wall close to the door, instead. It's a position right behind her captain, one that allows her to keep an eye on the dealings at the table. She leans back, automatically crossing her arms about her chest as her heel rests against the wall.

She's already drifting back into her head as soon as she sees the bundle of papers Crocodile draws from his coat.

 _'Ugh, nap time. Boring.'_

...

Shrike is only dreaming for but a few minutes before her captain's voice drifts through the fog. His terse tone interferes with her dreams of what dinner tonight might be.

"Will D'Lore junior not be joining us this afternoon?"

D'Lore senior clears his throat, drawing his fist to his mouth to suppress an uncomfortable laugh. "My son, yes. I'm afraid he won't be present. Pray, forgive me for relaying the message he left." He reaches into his own coat, drawing forth an equally large stack of papers that nearly makes her sigh in exasperation. The topmost one is a small note, about the size of a postcard.

He inhales a deep breath before reading aloud: " _A waste of my time! Meeting with some washed up old hack like that reptile bastard. If he doesn't like these conditions, tell him to piss off._ "

It takes everything from her to not burst out laughing. The corner of Shrike's lips twitch aggressively, and she closes her eyes to try and detach herself from the rampant giggling building her throat. Mocking her captain is one of her favorite sports, one she's more than happy to let others play. Any chance to see her captain squirm is not one she wants to miss.

She straightens up, eager to see the 'reptile's' reaction. This mission suddenly got a lot more interesting. Too bad she can't see his face from this position.

Surprisingly, he chuckles. The sound of it is like claws sinking into her chest. It's one of the most menacing sounds she's ever heard, dripping with honeyed aggression. "That arrogant attitude is exactly why I'm here, Torin. Do you really feel comfortable entrusting the family into his hands?"

From there, everything goes to shit.

Hawken had left with his father a list of demands that were downright outrageous.

Shrike stands there, watching in rapt attention as her captain attempts to suavely orchestrate a financial alliance with the D'Lore head of house. He's stonewalled at nearly every suggestion by the son who isn't even present. Every single concession made in the original offer is rejected to the point she can tell Crocodile isn't just frustrated, but _insulted_.

And an insulted Crocodile is a dangerous one.

"I'm afraid my hands are tied, Croc'." Her captain bristles at that, radiating waves of hostility at the clear disrespect. "My son is taking over and if this is how he wants to see the family ran, I will not interfere."

"So you're saying you don't care if your idiot of a son runs your family legacy into the ground?"

She straightens up, eyes widening. Her teeth begin to worry into her lower lip, desperate to contain any noises that may slip out. Every single one of her senses flip into high alert as her fingers begin to fidget at the hilt of her saber.

For her captain to begin dealing open-handed insults means that this situation is quickly going from bad to worst.

"Once he takes over? No." This time, Shrike focuses on D'Lore, trying to get a feel for his disposition. She watches the way his jaw tenses, how his nose twitches every so often. There's a rustling as his hands worry at a sheet of paper-' _the demands list?'_ -beneath the table.

And then she notices his eyes-with their occasional twitch-looking not at her captain, but _past_ him.

At the door.

As if he's worried someone is listening.

Shrike then realizes immediately: D'Lore senior is speaking under duress.

She takes a deep breath, letting her eyes slip closed as she curses herself for not having a better hold over her perception haki yet. Being able to sense if someone truly is on the other side of the door would be immeasurably helpful right about now.

But the fact of the matter is, she doesn't. Right now, the best she can do is try and get her captain's attention.

Shrike tunes back in just in time to hear Crocodile _really_ getting into it, his tone utterly dripping with venom.

"It's not the responsibility of your better to explain to you what you're too stupid to realize." His deep voice purrs with undisguised contempt.

Interrupting him while he's like this, possibly redirecting that ire back her way... ' _Shit shit shit. Please don't bite my head off.'_

Shrike swallows, and then clears her throat.

"Sir."

He doesn't hear her. Neither of them do.

"Resorting to trite insults? Arrogance doesn't secure the holdings of my family." A bead of sweat rolls down D'Lore's forehead. Whether it's from fear of Crocodile or fear of his son strong-arming him, it's impossible to say.

" _Sir._ " Shrike speaks up a little louder, nervous herself.

"And yet you seem so confident in this shithead son of yours. Or have you mistaken his arrogance for actual talent?"

"SIR!"

They both whirl to face her, D'Lore with a furious glare, Crocodile with a heated glower. Her captain hardly ever lets the true intensity of his emotions show on his face, so the fact that Shrike can _feel_ the anger roiling beneath those predatory eyes is a bad sign.

She can't help but flatten herself against the wall under the intensity of that look, fear spiking cold down her spine. This is... this is bad.

But something strange happens. As she freezes beneath that predatory scowl, his brow twitches ever so slightly. A light of something she can't quite place flashes in those dark eyes as his scowl begins to relax. The initial anger melts off his face as he begins to address he-

"Your wench speaks out of turn, Crocodile."

And then it's back, burning with even more hostility than before.

But so is Shrike.

"Says the piss-scared craven talking like there's a gun to his head." She's snapping at him before she even realizes it. That cool composure has long since slipped away, leaving behind nothing but blazing indignation. This man will _not_ speak to her this way. She's killed bigger men for less.

D'Lore rockets to a standing position, slapping his hands down on the table. His face has turned a bright crimson from the rage swelling within. "Gun to my head-You dare threaten me in my own home?!" He sputters the words like he's spitting out seeds, but all the while she notices his eyes flitting between her face and the door. "Me, Torin D'Lore?! I _run_ this city. You're nothing more than an unimportant _harlot_!"

She bristles furiously at that, barely keeping herself from snarling at the man." _I'm_ not threatening you, you pompous fuck. But clearly, someone else is!"

" _Shri-_ Agent _. Stand. Down._ " Her captain's terse voice rolls from her side, hovering just on the edge of being a growl. Despite his tone, the fact he slipped her name without its usual title wavers her resolve.

She quickly shakes her head and turns to look at him-standing now too-trying to gauge his current emotion. His expression has hardened into a bitter scowl, somehow aimed at both of her _and_ D'lore. He's still furious at D'Lore's disrespect, and he's now definitely furious at her's.

"Captain, _Sir_ , D'Lore has been speaking under duress this entire time. His eyes keep flitting towards the door."

Crocodile's mouth begins to open, only to be cut off by a knock at the door.

Shrike notices D'Lore stiffen out of the corner of her eye, his face turning a full shade paler. He swallows around a lump in his throat before addressing the knock. "Y-Yes. Come in."

As the door begins to swing open, she immediately drops into a defensive stance. Her hands fly to her saber's hilt and sheath as she prepares for the worst. From her periphery, she can tell her captain is also on edge, though not as outwardly tense as she is.

Her heart hammers in her chest. At this point she's fully expecting a gunman or, worse, a fruit user. What if D'Lore's nervous because he's been waiting for another hitman to come and try to take out the captain? What if it's someone coming to take D'Lore out hims-

And, of course, it's just a fucking _butler_ behind the door.

"Sir. Are things okay in here?"

D'Lore sighs behind her, and she hears the rustling of paper being shuffled. The timbre of his voice remains just as nervous as before, but it's now tinged with relief. "No, these two are no longer welcome. Escort them from the premises."

Shrike's face goes red hot in utter humiliation. She's fucked up. _B_ _ig time_.

D'Lore had only been nervous because Croc was scaring the piss out of him, probably as intended. And he was only looking at the door so often because he'd been hoping to call for security to get them the hell out. There never were any assassins or threats. She'd been so eager to impress her captain and do a good job that her mind had fabricated the whole situation.

All it did was make her look utterly incompetent.

She turns to look at Crocodile's face, already dreading the expression she might find there.

But... it's not what she expected. Not at all. Rather than anger, he's intensely focused. His narrowed eyes actively scrutinize the butler's face, and from the tightening of his jaw, Shrike can tell he's not quite trusting what he sees.

She's never seen him like this before. This... _predatory_. He's watching the butler like a beast does its prey, just waiting to pounce.

Is there something she's missed? Does he truly think this sniveling boy an enemy?

Shrike traces his line of vision back to the young butler's face, hoping to find any answers. Definitely a young man, early to mid-twenties. Aside from his unruly blond hair and pretty eyes, he's rather unassuming. His outfit is a little tight on him, and he looks a bit nervous, but no alarm bells go off as she looks him over.

"Master D'Lore has requested you leave at once. Come with me."

His tone is not quite right for a docile servant, nor is his choice in words, but she merely chalks it up to being nervous. It's hard _not_ to be with a man as intimidating as Crocodile looking at you like his next kill.

"Of course." Croc practically growls the words. He shoots one last look over his shoulder at D'Lore, but it's too quick for Shrike to catch his expression.

And then he turns to face her, looking just as sour as he did before. "Come, Agent. Before you make a mess of things any further."

Her heart sinks to her gut like a stone. His disapproval somehow cuts deeper than any knife. He'd handed Shrike her first real assignment-a chance to really prove herself-and she went and blew it. A fact he's more than open to express.

Rather than making more of a scene, she merely nods, casting her eyes to the floor. "Of course, Sir. My sincere apologies."

The quietness of her voice makes Shrike want to slap herself. She can't help but think how she sounds like a dejected child, as if she isn't embarrassed enough already.

Crocodile turns and follows the butler out without another word.

She gives one last look to D'Lore, burning anger at him snuffed by her captain's disappointment. D'Lore looks back with an uneasy light in his eyes. He's definitely still quite flustered himself, having been insulted and threatened in his own home. Shrike gives him a deep, remorseful bow, keeping her eyes downcast. "I have insulted you greatly, Mr. D'Lore. I apologize."

He huffs, sinking back into his chair. His head falls into his hands as he sinks, and she notes just how very _tired_ he looks. "Just... Just follow your captain's lead... and leave. Please."

A frown tugs at her lips. His choice of words strikes Shrike as... odd. ' _Follow my captain's lead...?'_

"Agent!" Crocodile's impatient tone echoes from out in the hall. Hearing it makes the dread sink back into her gut all over again, and the words flee from her mind. She gives one last apologetic bow to D'Lore before joining her captain and the butler in the hall.

She's careful to avert her gaze, still too mortified to meet his directly. He stares at her-she can _feel_ those dark eyes boring into her-but otherwise remains silent as she takes her place a step behind him at his side.

"This way, then." The butler pipes up, beckoning the two down the hall back to the front door...

* * *

Crocodile had pounced on the man as soon as he was down the front steps.

So unprepared for his outburst, that Shrike had rashly thrown herself between him and the unsuspecting butler without thinking.

 _Without. Thinking._

She definitely had missed something.

The end of the meeting had been terse. D'Lore's parting words had been not just odd, but cryptic.

He'd been trying to tell her something, but all of it had gone out the window when faced with her captain's hostility. Hostility at a seemingly innocent man. _Seemingly_.

Shrike continues making her way down the road, careful not to brush into any of the civilians in the throng about her. Her shroud is still active, but it can easily be dispelled by mistakenly drawing attention to herself.

' _Was that outburst really misdirected?'_ Her teeth worry into her lower lip, brain working overtime to process her memories of the day. " _The butler... Think!'_

A photo-perfect image of the butler solidifies in the forefront of her mind: He's a younger man, mid-twenties at most, with a thick, tousled mop of blonde hair. Bright blue eyes, closer to ice than sea water, that are undeniably gorgeous. He'd been wearing an outfit appropriate for his job, but not for his body. It'd been several sizes too small, clinging to rippling muscles she only just now realizes he had. It hadn't struck her as anything interesting in the moment, but now it's a feature quite noticeable as she pores over her mental image of him. Having such a physique is... odd... for a manservant.

' _What about his face?'_

His face had been above average, though not overly handsome. He'd sported a rather squarish nose, adorned with a jutting bridge. His jaw had been average, neither weak nor strong. Those pretty eyes. Immaculate teeth. No scars.

 _Wait._

One scar.

A short, clean line cutting through the right side of his lips arching down to this chi-

"AW FUCK!" Several people around her start and scream as Shrike curses aloud. She's seemingly materialized out of nowhere.

The heel of her hand meets her forehead with a resounding smack. The combination of her humiliation induced self-doubt and the adrenaline of the moment had made her completely overlook what she now realizes to be Hawken D'Lore's laughably weak disguise. The hair had obviously been a wig, disguising his natural auburn locks. His clothing had very clearly been borrowed from one of the family's _actual_ servants. And the makeup attempting to cover the scar across his lips had been sloppily applied.

It had all been so obvious that only an idiot could have fallen for it.

That idiot being Shrike.

' _I fucked up. I really fucked up. Oohhhhhh no. No no no no no.'_ Her mind races a thousand miles a second as she pieces together what happened.

D'Lore _had_ _been_ speaking under duress, terrified of slipping up and angering Hawken-disguised as a family servant-on the other side of the door. The father really is being held hostage in his own home, and Crocodile had realized it as soon as Shrike tried to tip him off. Only, that disguise and her captain's show of disapproval had rattled her conviction. She'd been so embarrassed and already self-conscious about meeting his expectations that she so readily accepted that she'd made a mistake.

Except, she hadn't.

The only mistake she'd made was not recognizing Hawken.

From the beginning, _she had been right._

Crocodile had quickly put on an act in order to not tip off Hawken, pretending to be infuriated at Shrike's 'mistake'. She'd been too hurt to pick up on that, acting on emotion instead of reason. The look Croc had shared with D'Lore senior-the one she hadn't been able to see-must've been a show of recognition. D'Lore's parting words? ' _Follow your captain's lead...'_ He practically _told_ her what was about to go down.

Before, Shrike had felt a sense of pride in her strong morality, having protected a seemingly helpless man from the vindictive rage of her captain. Now? Now all she feels is a burning sense of shame. ' _Some assassin I am! Not able to pick apart a disguise that looked like a child made it!'_

A deep unease suddenly settles over her shoulders. That shout of hers had dispelled her shroud, leaving Shrike completely exposed.

This feeling... she's being watched.

Seeing as how she and her captain have just infuriated an undeniably dangerous man-young as he is-the realization that she's being watched has her quite unsettled. Her shroud doesn't work on people already focused on her, so she needs to get hidden again fast. Shrike quickly dips into an alleyway, making sure to break the line of sight of whoever's watching her.

The brick is cool against her back as she leans against the side of a building. Her breathing slows, and she lets the calming sensation wash down her spine as she repeats her mantra in her head. ' _I am nobody... a foolish, stupid nobody_.' Not quite the same, but it works nonetheless, rendering her all but invisible in the traditional sense.

The sense of being watched vanishes, quickly replaced by the telltale tingling on her skin as she slips unseen.

With one last calming exhale, Shrike peeks her head out of the alleyway. Sure enough, a well-dressed pair of men sit hunched over in the cafe across the street. Their eyes frantically scan the crowd, and from their growing agitation, she can tell they're looking for her. They're undoubtedly two of Hawken's hired thugs, on the watch for either Shrike, her captain, or most likely both. So far they only seem to be keeping watch, but she doesn't want to stick around and press it.

She quickly slips back into the crowd, making a beeline for the ship.

 _'I need to fix this. I... I...'_ But the thought doesn't finish. _Won't_ finish. How can she even _start_ to fix this?! Prostrate herself before her captain and _beg_ for his forgiveness?

No. Shrike will _apologize_. She'll make this right. But she will _not_ grovel. As much as she loathes begging, Shrike equally loathes people who don't take responsibility for their actions. She fucked up, there's no denying that, so she'll apologize and do everything to make this right.

But she will not beg.

She swallows as the ship comes into view, its masts flying his winged jolly roger high and proud. This has been her home for the past year, but now... now it feels like a trap.

All she can do is hope he's cooled down enough to not kill her as soon as she steps foot on deck. If he does... well, then at least it's not _her_ problem anymore.


	3. Of Cats and Dogs

**Chapter Summary:** Shrike returns to the ship, but Crocodile isn't there. Her biggest critic is though, and he's plenty eager to hear just how she's messed it all up this time.

 **Author Notes:** Reviews/comments appreciated! Let me know what you think.

* * *

"You're _really_ sure he's not here." It's more of an affirmation than a question at this point. He's more than made himself clear already.

"For the last time: no, he's not. But the longer you keep asking, the more time he has to show up."

Shrike doesn't have the best relationship with Daz Bones, that much is certain. He's been more than vocal in his concerns about her joining the crew, thinking she'd just try to kill the captain in his sleep. Not say that wasn't a _wrong_ assumption to make... she'd certainly thought of it.

Over the past year, Daz has taken to keeping an uncomfortably close eye on her. A wary, distrustful one that's left her little opportunity for wholesome camaraderie.

Sure, he'd taken up most of Shrike's training-teaching her a variety of martial arts alongside her swordplay-but his lessons have been nothing short of draconian. He'd only just recently semi-warmed up to her in the past few months. While their relationship is not yet 'friendly', it's no longer active animosity, either.

Right now, though, it's clear that Shrike's repeated badgering is just annoying him.

She groans, anxiety driving her to pace about the little sparring ring. This cleared out half of the cargo hold serves as a perfectly adequate space for the crew to train in. It's far enough below the main decks that it muffles any noises that would annoy _The_ _Croc_. When not loyally dogging at his captain's side, Daz spends much of his time down here working out or meditating, as he is now.

That is until she barged in.

As soon as Shrike got back, she'd scoured the whole ship searching for Crocodile. There'd been nary a trace of him, though it did appear as though he'd torn through his office in a hurry-even leaving the door slightly ajar. In one last-ditch effort to find him, she'd stumbled upon Daz while searching the cargo hold, much to his annoyance.

He rolls his shoulders, not even bothering to open an eye and look at her. "What happened, Shrike? What did you do?"

"What did _I_ do?! Why are you always so quick to assume that I _did_ something?!" She whirls on her heel to glare at him, anger sparking through her chest. So distrustful of him that she can't help but grow defensive at his assumption that she'd fucked up somehow... even if he's completely right.

Because she _did_ do something.

 _This_ time.

"You always do this! I've been pulling my weight around here for months now, and it's never good enough for you! I make one mistake and that's enough for you to throw me overboard!" Shrike glares at him, though she knows her ghastly yellow eyes don't have quite the same effect on him as they do to others.

"A mistake?" He cracks one of his steely grey ones open. It looks at her full to the brim with smug judgment. "So you _did_ do something."

He says it so matter of fact, Shrike can _feel_ what little patience she has left for him snap. A bowstring pulled so tautly that the frame itself has shattered into a thousand tiny splinters.

She takes a few menacing steps towards him, reason completely overshadowed by insulted fury. "I am _so_ sick and tired of your _shit_ , Daz! What makes you so special?! So unquestionable?! You think you're _soooo_ infallible!"

His shoulders shift as his lungs heave out a tired sigh. "As hot-headed as usual. Lashing out at others for your own mistakes again? You never learn, kitty."

Rage jolts through her like lightning.

That nickname. She absolutely hates it. It's nothing but a reminder that he only thinks of her as the dirty street cat the captain picked up. Like she's no better than some stray that Crocodile thought he could make into a loyal lap beast just like he did his fearsome pet gators.

All of Shrike's frustrations over the past year come exploding out in the form of a roaring snarl. "DON'T-CALL-ME-THAT!"

He rolls his eyes, and that's it.

Well, she _wants_ that to be it.

Her hand flies to the hilt of her saber, but she goes no further. Everything in her wants to draw on him; wants to show him that she's capable of more than just hissing, that she has claws too.

But that would only be proving him right. Drawing on him outside of a training session would only validate all those nasty assumptions he has of her. Prove that she's just an arrogant brat incapable of learning, unable to leash herself and maintain control.

She'd rather die than prove him right.

Her eyes slip closed as she forcibly swallows down the incensed bile bubbling in her throat. Shrike can feel him looking at her. _Judging_ her. Those steely eyes pierce straight into her soul, waiting for her to show him her true character.

The breath she takes is so deep it cocks her head to the side, neck popping from the strain of her muscles trying to contain herself. Whatever Daz thinks of her, she's _better_ than that.

Her hand falls away from the saber, fingers tensing into a fist before relaxing at her side. She opens her eyes to meet his own, and the tension in the air is palpable as yellow clashes with silver.

Daz's face is no longer impassive, now bearing a tight-lipped smirk. "Well now, and here I was hoping to teach you another lesson."

His words stoke the fury still smoldering in her chest, but she knows better than to take the bait. Lunging at him now would just leave her bloody and bruised on the floor. She merely crosses her arms, rocking back to recline on a heel as she fights to contain herself.

"I know I'm just one big joke to you. No matter what I do, I'm nothing but that mangy stray trying to play at being a professional." She clucks her tongue, shaking her head in a show of mock disapproval. "Well, I've disappointed one person today, might as well disappoint you too."

He frowns, expression turning serious. "The kitty's using her words instead of her claws? What happened must've really humbled you."

Shrike gives a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders. "Yeah, well. I don't want to talk about it. I'm sure Croc' will tell you all about it later."

With that, she turns to make her exit, heading to the stairs leading out of the cargo hold. She makes it about halfway across the hull before her senses blare in high alert. Even as immature as her newly awakened perception haki is, she'd have to be completely comatose not to notice the object hurtling toward her head from behind.

Her hand dives up her sleeve at the same time she begins to pivot in place. Just as the tips of her fingers brush against the blade hidden there, it's sliding into the palm of her hand. She flips it between her knuckles before snapping her wrist forward just as she completes her turn. It glides from between her fingers, smooth as silk, expertly slicing the thrown apple into two perfect halves.

A thud echoes about the hold as the dagger embeds into the wood of the hull, just past Daz's head. Shrike meets his tight-lipped frown with a fearsome scowl.

The two halves of the apple hit the floor with thuds of their own.

Daz pulls himself to his feet, making a show of stretching up to his full height. Even with her six foot two figure, he towers over Shrike just as her captain does.

A fact she absolutely detests.

He cracks his neck, taking a casual step forward while he rolls his shoulders a few times. "Now now, kitty. I want to hear it from _you._ Tell me what happened."

"I don't have time for this, _mutt_." She growls, sliding another dagger down from her other arm. It glints in the low, dusky light of the hold, catching the glow of the nearby lantern. Shrike has no intention of starting a fight, but she sure as hell has no problems _finishing_ one.

He crosses his arms about his chest before cocking a brow. "In a rush? Almost like you don't want to be here when he gets back? What you did was _bad,_ wasn't it."

She bites her cheek, relying on the sting to keep her grounded. This is just him testing her even harder. She knows he just wants to see how long she can hold out before he gets another rise out of her.

Well, he's not going to get it.

Without a word, Shrike turns on her heel and resumes her exit. Daz will hear all about it tonight, she's sure, or whenever the captain gets back. Whether that's before or after he's killed her...

From over her shoulder, Daz tsks his tongue. "I always knew you'd be a disappointment, Shrike. Just a waste of our time."

Her vision goes red, flushed hot with pure, undiluted rage. With a snarl, she whirls around and whips the other dagger straight at his head. A hard, metallic clang echoes about the hold as he deflects with a bladed arm.

Just as she knew he would.

Just as _he_ knew she'd cave in the end. Shrike never could resist a challenge, no matter the size. And right now, he's challenging her _pride_.

Daz drops into a brawling stance, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet. " _That's_ it. There's the claws. C'mon, get it all out." His hand extends outwards, palm towards the ceiling as he makes a beckoning motion with his fingers.

 _'The only thing I need to get out is you from my life!'_ But she doesn't say it. She instead channels all her rage into a furious snarl that tears itself from her throat.

Shrike closes the distance between the two of them in a single bound, simultaneously wrenching her saber free from its sheath. But Daz moves quickly, far more quickly than she'd anticipated. Nor is she thinking clearly enough to maintain her battle composure.

His hand snaps out, chopping down at hers right at the wrist. It's unbladed, luckily, but the force of the strike forces Shrike's grip to relax. Her saber falls to the ground with a rattling clang as she takes a leap backward.

"No weapons. No running away. You're going to get these childish frustrations out the old fashioned way." He kicks the blade across the floor with a frown, sending it away to rest against the sloped curve of the hull. The disrespect only has her seething even more, but before she can open her mouth, he's driving forward with a punch aimed straight for her gut.

She quickly pivots to the side. Daz's fist finds only air where her torso had just been, but he's far too experienced for something like that to have upset his balance. He corrects his movement gracefully, leg sweeping up for a roundhouse kick targeted at her upper arm.

His leg soars over her head as she drops to a crouch just in time. She quickly throws herself forward before he can follow with another blow. The world blurs into a whorl as she rolls beneath Daz's outswung leg, deftly maneuvering behind him.

Shrike lands in a crouch on the other side, where she rushes to spring backward and put some space between the two of them. Right as she kicks off the ground, he spins around with a speed bordering on _disturbing;_ a reminder that his training sessions have just been him _toying_ with her.

But now? Now, he's taking this seriously.

His fingers wrap around her ankle right as she begins to spring away. It halts all her forward movement, whiplash tearing the world out from beneath her. Shrike's chin hits the ground with the tinny click of teeth and a resounding thud. Everything flashes white from the shock of it, and her hands immediately fly up to paw at her jaw.

Through the stunned haze, she can dimly make out the clucking of a tongue. "I said no running, kitty."

The pain fades immediately. He's utterly incensed her at this point. She rolls onto her back to glare up at the arrogant jackass with a rolling snarl. "Fuck you!"

Daz drops to a crouch, flicking a finger across her nose roughly. "The yowling isn't necessary either. Now, how about you tell me what you did out there, hm?"

Like hell she will, not after all this. He doesn't deserve to hear a single word of it from her lips. Things have progressed beyond mean words and harsh glares. If he wants answers, he's going to have to _work_ for them.

She promptly smacks his outstretched hand away.

Daz grumbles, head lolling backward from the force of his eye roll. "Stubborn as usual. Look, either you can tell me, _now_. Or I'm going to beat that pride out of you, and _then_ you'll tell me."

Her continued silence tells him her answer.

Right as he begins to huff another exasperated sigh, Shrike rolls her legs upward and springs back to her feet. The surprised look on his face quickly shifts to an excited grin as she drops into a brawling stance none too dissimilar from the one he'd adopted earlier.

"Fine. I'll play your stupid game."

Crocodile would never approve of the two going at each other seriously, but Shrike has a feeling Daz cares about that as little as she does right now. The issues between them have gotten to the point that they can't be solved over some well-placed words and a shared drink.

Daz is right about one thing: they need to get this out the old-fashioned way.

"You never were one to resist a challenge." Daz muses, all the while filling the hold with the cracking of his knuckles. "Beatdown it is, then."

Shrike had meant to take the initiative-try to keep _him_ on his toes-but Daz surges forward with a speed that doesn't give her much of a choice.

The assault he launches on her is nothing short of overwhelming. It's all she can do just to look for an opening and attempt to make at least a glancing blow in return, but even that proves to be nigh impossible. Every iota of her focus is spent on dodging and blocking, turning and weaving. She can't find a single spot for a counterstrike of her own, her forearms growing more battered by the second as she struggles to block the onslaught.

During training sessions, Daz is a diligent enough tutor to purposefully leave her some openings.

But this isn't training.

As he so tactfully put, this is a 'beat down.'

"You were assigned a simple tag-along mission, you're first I might add!" He drops to his haunches, aiming to knock Shrike to the ground with a leg sweep.

She clears it easily with a short hop.

"-and instead of coming back successful-" The next blow, another punch, he aims right for her chin. A would-be fight ending hit. She's forced to block it with her forearms, and the radiating ache along them tells her there'll be a nasty bruise. "-the captain tears back in here seething mad, damn near about to tear someone's head off-"

Shrike keeps trying to find spots to retaliate, but his words are getting to her. His goading has her too rattled to slip into her honed battle focus.

' _I'm better than this, dammit!'_ She grits her teeth as the fury within her builds. The raging frustration chews away at her composure with each suffered blow. ' _NO. Stop! Breathe! Focus!'_ She wills herself to steady her breathing despite the tide of blows she's only just barely stemming. ' _Look for your opening!'_

It's then that she remembers. A lesson he'd taught her, one of the very first: ' _K_ _now when to take a hit_.'

He aims a jab right for her gut that has her awkwardly contorting her spine to dodge out of the way. She manages to avoid the worst of it, though a minor bout of pain flares up as his fist glances her right side.

All according to plan.

Shrike strikes before he can adjust. Daz stumbles on his feet as she yanks him forward, both hands latched onto his outstretched arm. A harsh grunt fills the hold as her knee connects with his torso.

But she knows not to celebrate too soon. His size and experience have him at far more of an advantage than she does.

His arms wrap around her thigh in a flash, locking her in tight.

"You're gonna' have to hit harder than _that_ if you want it to hurt." He grins, lips smugly contorted as he tuts at her.

' _Shit!'_ Shrike wants to kick herself, falling for the same type of trap she'd just used on him. He grips about her leg tighter to let her know just how struck she is.

"Now, _tell me what happened._ " The last of his words come out as an aggressive growl.

She hurriedly kicks her other foot off the ground, hoping to plant it against his chest and push him off balance. "Fuck. Off!"

It seems that's exactly what he's been waiting for.

Right as her foot leaves the ground, Daz bends backward, all the while pulling her leg with him. He doesn't stop at the halfway point either. His body contorts itself as if he were attempting to slam her into a suplex. But, he can't be, she's in the wrong position to do that.

He instead lets her go right at the top of the arch, and her forward momentum sends her sailing across the hold.

Shrike can't help but flail, desperately trying to correct her position and land on her feet. The way he's thrown her has her spinning off center, and a tip of her foot touches the ground a hair off balance. It's not enough for friction to slow her down. Her toes promptly slide right out from underneath her.

Her knee makes contact next. A painful jolt vibrates all the way from the cap to her pelvis. The ricochet arks so strongly up her body that she wonders if it's shaken her apart, a doll that's had its limbs popped out.

The other knee shortly follows with a shuddering crack of its own. Her momentum carries her forward a few feet, shins mercilessly grinding across the rough wooden floor as the coarseness of the wood shreds her leggings wide open. The skin beneath splits next as the fabric rips away.

An agonized cry wells up in her throat, but she chokes it down as if it were bitter medicine. Shrike's teeth bite down into her lower lip so hard she tastes blood trying to keep that noise from escaping. She'd never let him have the satisfaction of hearing her scream again.

That first night was already one time too many.

She folds into herself, forehead pressing against the floor as her hands desperately rub at the biting sting radiating from her legs. The fair skin of her knees will be mottled black and blue for weeks.

Footsteps from behind snatch her focus.

"I know that hurt, Shrike. Why don't you tell me what happened so we can get those cuts cleaned up?" His voice has lost some of its bite, now tinged with a hint of concern.

It utterly infuriates her.

" _Don't. Pity. Me._ " Her nails bite hard enough into her thighs that the sting cleaves right through the thudding ache from her fall. She pushes herself off the floor with barely contained groans, only just now noticing the bloody less running down her shins. Her lip and chin are wet too, from what she can only assume to be more blood.

"Shrike, swallow your pride just this once. If you're this worked up, it has to be serious. Let me _help_."

The glare she levels his way would make any lesser man shrink in fear. His eyes merely narrow with an expression she can't really place. Right now, she doesn't even care about her problems with Crocodile. Not even Daz's incendiary comments.

Right now, Shrike just wants to _win_. Win solely for the sake of winning.

But, a hand to hand brawl is not the way to do that. Shrike's expertise lies in killing as quietly and efficiently as possible, all without the target even knowing she's there. Her close combat skills are thanks to Daz himself, and they're but a shadow of his. Turning them back his way? Folly from the start. No, she needs to pull out a different trick to turn the odds in her favor.

She only hopes she can keep it under control.

The last she sees as her eyes slip closed is Daz cocking a brow. Her nostrils flare from the steadying exhale pushed from her lungs. What she's about to do requires absolute focus. Unshaken control.

His voice pierces through the darkness of her lids. "We both know you can't control your haki. You _really_ want to try it on me?"

Shrike tunes him out, concentrating solely on her breathing. ' _Focus.'_

Daz huffs, yet makes no move to stop her. For as much as he has an advantage in this fight, he knows she's not a pushover. He's felt first hand what she's capable of when pushed, having suffered more than a few sobering blows over the past year as her tutor.

So far, Shrike has managed to deflect, dodge, or at least block nearly every blow he's aimed her way. Now, it's time for her to strike back.

On the next exhale, a low hum reverberates from her throat. It's an even, low note that somehow resonates with her entire being, awakening a level of sensory awareness that can only be described as supernatural.

Her senses explode to life; hearing, vision, touch all more than tripling in sensitivity. So much so, that the darkness of her eyelids has taken on a level of sight she's never before experienced. Streams of color dance around the blackness, each one roughly painting the shapes and locations of the objects around her.

It's almost too much. _Almost_.

Daz is right, as much as she hates to admit it. Using her newly awakened perception haki in a fight is way more than just a gamble. If she loses control, the resulting sensory overload will flood her mind and leave her a dazed mess on the floor.

But she needs it if she wants to win.

Her eyes open to find the contents of the hold in hyper-focus. It's to such a degree that everything appears edged, as if just touching the corner of a crate would slice her open from wrist to elbow. The dim light from the electric lanterns has amplified to nearly daylight levels. Even the shadows seem to have lost a touch of their blackness.

Daz is still at the other side of the arena, arms crossed over his chest. In the absence of the hold's gloom, Shrike spies the faintest of smirks on his face.

"Have it your way, then." He breathes the words out more than speaks them, but she hears them as clearly as if they'd been uttered right into her ears.

Shrike's breathing starts to waver, focus already struggling to keep her senses from overloading. One slight mistake and it'll shatter. She'll go crashing right to the floor as her conscious mind shorts out from the streams of sensory information filling it full to overflow.

"I can see you struggling over there." Still, Daz drops into a defensive form. Cautious.

" _Shut. Up._ " She chokes the words out through grit teeth. Her enhanced hearing is picking up far too many distractions, everything from the waves lapping against the ship's hull to the chattering of the crew gossiping about what's going on down here.

She desperately shakes her head in an attempt to clear the distractions away. ' _Focus. Calm. Breathe.'_

The first move has to be hers if she wants to win this. She has to strike before she loses focus, end it all before her senses white out.

Shrike drops to her haunches, springing forward with a kick off the floor. Daz starts to move, and she can see his muscles twitch as he does so. His minuscule movements send off more of those colorful waves with each twitch. Each one streams in the direction of his motion, a prediction of his line of action.

It's not exactly seeing the future, but a good enough approximation, nonetheless.

She lands at a crouch right in front of him, rolling to the left as he lifts his leg for a kick. She's already striking before he can launch a remise: a feigned kick of her own to his left flank, immediately dropping her leg as soon as he's locked into the block.

This time, Shrike is the one with the advantage. Someone of Daz's size could never hope to match her speed.

With a small roar, her right fist hooks upward into the left side of his jaw. The forceful click of his teeth is music to her ear. A tune she nearly dances away to as she disengages to avoid any counters of his own.

Getting into a grapple with him would without a doubt end this fight, with him as the clear victor. While she can throw a punch-and take one too-Daz's side would dwarf the speedy advantage she has over him should he manage to lock her into close quarters.

"What's the matter, dog? Can't take a punch from a kitty two-thirds your size?" Shrike bounces on the balls of her feet in anticipation. Riling him up could either throw him off balance. Or, worse, it could just make him an even bigger threat.

She's gambling on it being the former.

Daz looks almost thoughtful as he rubs his jaw, head still turned in the position she'd knocked it to. His eyes slip closed in what appears to be contemplation, like he's musing over the ache left behind from her fist. When he turns to look at her, those steely eyes are shaped with a mixture of both amusement and heated anger.

And a little bit of something else.

' _Pride?'_

In a split second, he closes the distance between them. There's barely enough time to dart to the side, Shrike's brain struggling to process the haki streams in such a short amount of time.

She narrowly avoids a knee to her gut, but in doing so crashes into a crate on the perimeter of the ring. It happens so quickly it's impossible to resist the urge to scream as her bloodied knee scrapes against the rough wood. She channels it into a growling curse, letting the frustration fuel her drive.

Her focus wavers, though, the light of the hold suddenly growing a few hues brighter as she struggles to reign in the visual aspect of her haki.

He keeps pressing her back, forcing her to dive to the floor. She expertly rolls right underneath him, springing to her feet at his backside. Her haki waves lead ahead of his actual movements, and she pivots to the left to get in position for another strike.

Daz grunts painfully as he turns towards her, Shrike's elbow meeting him right in the chest.

She leaps backward as he tries to grab her, still too quick despite the ragged breaths heaving from her lungs. He seems entirely unfazed, his own breathing as even as if he were taking a light stroll.

"Getting tired?" He mocks, a cocky grin splitting across his face. "Just tell me what happened and we can end this right now."

"As if, bastard." Shrike spits the words at his feet, vision going again white again as her hearing turns static. It's getting harder and harder to maintain control. One hit from him would be enough to disrupt the already tenuous control she has.

She needs to end this. _Now_.

A quick dart forward and a pivot to the side brings her to his right flank. ' _Strike, before he can move!'_

Her fist shoots forward.

A metallic clang resounds about the hold. Blistering pain shoots all the way up to her elbow from her knuckles. Rather than striking the soft flesh of his side, the flat edge of his bladed arm has stopped her fist dead in its tracks. She cries out from the pain of it, senses fizzling in and out of focus.

He clucks his tongue. "You should have just told me what happened, kitty."

Before Shrike can gain the composure to pull herself away, his hands begin to rise. With an almost bored expression, he brings them both before her face and-

' _NO NO NO-'_

Her agonized scream echoes about the confines of the hold. She stumbles backward, flailing as she desperately tries to somehow cover both her eyes and ears at the same time.

What should have been an innocuous clap was nothing short of devastating to her heightened senses. She's simply too tired and pained to brace herself for the sensory overload. Each wave of sound bouncing about the narrow space of the sparring ring batters her ears, drowning out the world around her until there's nothing left but harsh ringing.

It's a deafening clarion that consumes all.

Her vision follows immediately. Upon losing control, Shrike's pupils blew completely. The once dim light of the hold becomes utterly blinding, and not even closing her eyes helps. Everything turns blazing white.

Her entire existence has been rendered to nothing but impossible noise and blinding light.

It's pure _hell_.

She feels a blow to the back of her legs, one that sends her tumbling into the air. The wind is knocked clean from her lungs as she lands roughly on her shoulders.

Something pins her down, but she can barely even think let alone defend herself. She's completely and utterly at the mercy of the dog that's disabled her with a mere clap. Rather than defend herself, Shrike's hands instinctively clamp down over her eyes, palms glued tight in an attempt to drown out the light assailing her despite her closed lids.

The ringing continues in earnest, too, though slightly muffled. She's faintly aware of pressure over her ears, though from what, she can't tell. It's all she can do to just lie there gasping, trying to stay afloat amid the tidal wave of sensory input.

"...Turn...off." The words faintly reach her through the din clanging about her skull. "...haki...off."

The pressure over her ears loosens a bit-"Shrike, relax"-before returning to its muffling relief once more.

She can do little else but obey, swallowing mouthfuls of air as she attempts to relax as ordered.

"Focus on...pressure..."

She does.

As her breathing finds a steadier rhythm, Shrike directs all her heightened sensory input to focus on touch rather than sight and sound. The consistent pressure over her eyes and ears anchors her to reality among the cacophonous ringing and blinding light ravaging her conscious. The aches and pains dotting her body, too, flare in intensity as she redirects her senses to touch. They only help ground herself even more.

After what feels like a millennium, the world finally quiets. Light and sound recede back to normal. The darkness returns to her eyelids, and all she can hear is the muted sound of her deep, gasping breaths.

With a groan, she pulls her hands from her face and warily opens an eye. Daz is still pinning her down, his large hands pressed over her ears. The expression on his face is stern, yet concerned. That of a parent scolding a child after they've hurt themselves doing something stupid... but still concerned about the hurt, nonetheless. Normally, such a look would've pissed her off. As she is now, she's far too exhausted to care.

She gives his hands a light tap. ' _I'm fine now...'_

His hands pull away, though he says nothing. Nor does he make a move to release her, still keeping her pinned to the floor. She doesn't bother resisting, not like she has enough energy to anyways. The ordeal she's just suffered through has sapped her of any fighting spirit.

Silence fills the hold as she looks up at him, pale yellow meeting steely grey in a moment of understanding.

And then, she's speaking.

"I... I fucked up, Daz." She manages to say, though each work shakily falls from her lips. The weak timbre of her voice disturbs her, how absolutely _defeated_ she sounds. From the way Daz's eyes narrow-not with anger, but with concern-she gets the feeling he's made just as uncomfortable by it as she is.

"Things went from bad to... to more bad. I... I... he was so mad... I _drew my blade on him!_ "

Daz is off her with a single, swift movement. He leans down to offer her a hand, to which she takes it gladly. Her body screams and aches as she rises, groans pushing from her throat as the soreness reminds her of its presence. The way he'd pinned her-with his knees tightly digging into her sides-will leave her mottled black and blue in no time. And that's not even considering the state of her knees, her forearms, her shoulders...

And all she has to show for it is the light bruise beginning to blossom along his jawline.

"Bruises never killed anyone, kitty." Though he says it softly, not with the edge his jabs typically bear.

She meets him with silence, not even having the energy the sass him back. It's just not there.

Shrike grips onto her left forearm, nervously looking at the floor as she struggles to keep from sinking back down it. Everything hurts way more than expected.

Daz places a hand on her shoulder after a few tense moments, where he gently guides her over to one of the crates. His arm quickly scoops about her waist, effortlessly depositing her on the crate's edge such that her legs dangle off the side. At this height, she can look at him without straining her neck, making her feel just a little less small.

It's appreciated.

"Alright, Shrike. You need to tell me what happened."

So she does. She spares him on details, telling him everything that happened this morning. From when she and Croc' left the ship early that afternoon, to their explosive confrontation, to even being watched after she'd mistakenly blown her cover, Shrike tells Daz everything.

He has little to say during it, and even less after.

Her head slumps into her hands upon finishing. Just the act of recounting her day has exhausted her even further. Not to mention, it's left her burning with shame, making the embarrassment of her failure feel fresh once more.

' _He thinks even worse of me now, I know it. My first big break and I blew it just as he expected. Like he wanted me to. He's probably ecstatic, he's always wanted me to fail-'_ Shrike's thoughts race uncontrollably. Every ugly insecurity and self-doubt rear their ugly heads all at once.

Her breathing picks up, chest tightening in that tell-tale sign.

' _NO. No way in hell will I let him see me like this!'_

It's been months upon months since she last had a panic attack. They'd been common enough while she was still living on the streets, a hair's breadth from starving to death or freezing in the snow. Even in the early days of joining the crew, she'd find herself sneaking away below deck to panic in private. As she's healed, grown stronger and faster and smarter, their frequency has waned almost entirely, save for the nigh-constant nagging of her own self-doubt.

But today has shaken her hardened nerves... a panic attack is imminent.

She needs to be alone and _fast._

Without so much as a word, Shrike shoves him out of the way and drops to the floor. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder. "Wait."

That simple action rekindles all the suppressed fury anew, reignites her smoldering indignation.

She whips around, ready to shove him some more only to see that he's not looking at her with anger... but with reassurance?

"I... I don't get it... isn't this what you wanted?!" Her words begin to shake every so slightly, composure quickly unraveling. "Didn't you want to see me _fail_?! I'm nothing but a 'waste of time', remember?!" She begins to shout at him as her jaw wobbles precariously.

Her teeth grit tight, desperate to keep herself steady as the tears threaten to build up in her eyes. ' _Damn this. Damn all of this.'_

He's silent for a few moments, as if choosing his words carefully.

"No. I... I only said that to get a reaction out of you. You're _not_ a waste of time, Shrike. You never have been."

But she's already pushing past him. She doesn't have the time or care to listen to his lies right now.

"Shrike, listen. Listen to me." His hand clamps down on her arm this time, keeping her from escaping. "I worried you'd carelessly thrown away the opportunity you'd been given. I need answers, to know for sure."

His words hang in the air.

She mulls over them, tossing them about her mind as she tries to find rhyme or reason in what he's saying. "...You thought me ungrateful?"

His lips press together into a thin line, silent a moment more before replying. "You have a lot of potential. I don't want you to squander it."

Shrike almost shivers at that, not exactly expecting such a compliment here and now.

"The captain especially... he sees a lot in you. I'd rather you not disappoint him."

Her mind goes blank, mouth falling open. Crocodile... Crocodile sees potential in her?

She feels herself growing more flustered by the second.

"Learn from this, Shrike. This wasn't as big a failure as you fear it is. You can use it to grow."

His words sober her up a bit, the fluttering making way for heat once more. She snaps at him with barely restrained bitterness. "I'm sorry, but I thought failure on this ship meant a one-way ticket overboard? Croc' may not have killed me earlier but he can still get rid of me later!"

What comes next just about kills her dead on her feet.

Daz _laughs_.

A short burst, but a laugh nonetheless. He shakes his head, planting his hands on his hips. "Like he could ever do such a thing to you. Everyone else, sure. But not to you, kitty... never to you." The last bit he says more to himself, under his breath.

Shrike stumbled backward, stuttering with her mouth agape. She has no idea how to react to such words, much less how to even begin interpreting just what he's saying.

"I... I... ahh... hahhhhh" Her chest tightens again, panic threatening to return. The burning in her chest blossoms on her face, now hot in embarrassment as the meaning of his words begins to dawn on her. Every fiber of her being screams: ' _YOU NEED TO GO.'_

She turns and runs. Despite the thudding ache in her limbs, she hurtles herself up the stairs in her desperation to get out of this hold and into the safety of her quarters.

But she's met solely with despair.

The top of the stairs is blocked by a small gaggle of the crew excitedly trying to peek down into the hold.

Ezra-the most antagonistic of the bunch-stands proud front and center. His sea-green eyes bore into Shrike with glee, peering out from beneath his tousled mop of red hair as he looks over the bloodied mess of his rival.

"Hah! Look how beat up she is! Daz kicked your ass, didn't h-" Shrike punches him right in the gut as she shoves past him. He doubles over as a raucous chorus of laughter sounds about the narrow hallway. Shinda-the navigator-and Axen-the chef-mock him relentlessly as he rolls about the floor.

"Doesn't look like that pride of hers been tempered any!"-"You really were asking for that, Ezzie!"

They shout and laugh as she hurriedly runs down the hall to her quarters. Their laughter chases her all the way, biting at her heels.

Tears already drip down the corners of her eyes by the time she reaches her door. Right as she slams it shut, the last she hears from the hall is Daz's deep voice abruptly cutting into their fun. "...That is enough!"

Shrike's back slides down the closed door until she comes to rest on the floor, all the while releasing what feels like the longest sigh of her life. The tears roll down her heated cheeks in earnest now, covering the rosy flesh in streaks of wet. Her chest stutters as the panic tears each breath out, a hammer forcing her lungs open and shut as a pace she can't quite fulfill.

Eventually, not for near half an hour later, it fades. It fades just as it always does.

Its absence leaves her sitting there, feeling nothing but that cold emptiness as if all feeling has been spilled from her lungs and tears. The events of the day wash over her, though she feels dissociated from them. Like they happened to someone else.

Only one thing stirs something within her: a heavy thump in her chest.

It comes out, barely above a whisper: "...never... you..."


	4. Golden Eyes and Blackened Hearts

**Chapter Summary:** Sweet dreams, little kit. The night reveals much.

 **Author Notes:** This is a backstory/exposition of how Shrike managed to find a spot on Croc's ship. Sorry if she isn't as good of a person as you want her to be, there's a reason why he's so interested in her. Reviews/comments appreciated! Let me know what you think.

* * *

Shrike never was a graceful sleeper. Having an odd dream is the least she should've expected after a day like today.

* * *

The _hunger_ is back.

How long has it been since it'd been properly satiated? How many _years_ _?_

The emptiness coils itself through her gut, a poison so potent it threatens to wither away what meager strength she has left. It gnaws at what little meat still clings to her bones, warping her body into a gangling mess. It's the kind of hunger that brings on waves of nausea, pointless in their existence. The only thing left in her to vomit is her life essence itself, as dwindling as it is.

There's nothing else left.

Shrike has no choice. The time to act is _now_.

It's a cold night, one accompanied by a low, rolling fog. The mist snakes about her lower half, dancing around her bony knees and chilling her so deep the marrow in her bones would shiver if it could. Her ragged coat does little to stave off the biting chill. Body heat escapes through its threadbare fabric and poorly mended patches.

She pulls the hood down low, just above her pallid yellow eyes, and yanks her coarse scarf up to cover her frigid features. The numbness of her ears and nose has long since lost its worrying effect on her. She's just far too used to it now.

This is the type of cold that people die in. Their twisted, frozen corpses will only be found when the snow melts in the much too distant spring. Cold, alone, and forgotten.

Much like Shrike is.

But she won't be going cold tonight. The mansion will be warm.

Her target's estate is sprawling, easily able to house tens of families with plenty of room to spare. Rather than sheltering the cold and hungry, though, she knows its winding halls and massive rooms are no doubt filled to the brim with meaningless objects. Trite, tacky pieces whose sole purpose are to take up space in the absence of warm bodies.

It's a house, but not a _home._ A soulless building whose ample space is wasted on just one, single, wretched being: a monster poorly disguised in the flesh of a man.

Its kitchen is undoubtedly large and amply stocked, certifiably capable of feeding the island's poor a hundred times over. Heaven knows they need it. _She_ needs it.

Wasted on just this one, insufferable creature.

And the wealth? The wealth _wastefully_ sitting within the manor's vaults? Garishly decorating the walls in gaudy inlays crafted of tasteless jewels? It's more than enough to pay for the treatment of any lingering injury, any disease... to build homes and buy warm clothes... to save the very _lives_ of those with no home but the alleys and sewers of this damnable city.

All of it... wasted on just this one man.

Wasted on _waste_.

There'll be a stop to it before the night is done.

The _Butcher_ has come calling.

Shrike's stomach gurgles loudly at the thought of eating, tearing a pained hiss from her brutally dry throat. Her mouth somehow floods with saliva despite her thirst, excited at the prospect of food. _Real_ food, and not the literal garbage she's been digging from the trash or whatever scraps people throw at her as they hurriedly pass by.

They can't ever bear to just _look_ at her, always rushing by with their eyes downcast. How _dare_ she ask for help. How _dare_ she ask for what these people have in plenty. How _dare_ she even _exist._

Rage bubbles inside her, the low roar of it filling her ears. The pain of the hunger only adds fuel to the hatred burning in her chest. This city doesn't care about her, just like it doesn't care about any of the other _undesirables_.

No one will care when she dies. Shrike's death will only be another chore for them; yet another frozen corpse to pry off the street and dump into some hole to forget about. She's just an eyesore, not a living, breathing human being.

Not even the others on the streets care. They can't afford to, not in this life. People are lost too quickly. Why form bonds, why care, when there's the ever-present chance you'll wake up to a starved corpse next to you? Or having their back disappearing into the dark of a canal being the last you ever see of them?

Yet... in spite of it all... Shrike _does_ care.

She cares about the injustice of all this. She cares that people let this type of suffering happen in the first place and then do absolutely nothing to stop it. It's barbaric and savage and wrong and _justice_ needs to be brought to those that have the power to fix it all but _don't._

If no one else is willing to get their hands dirty, then that duty falls to her: to play the monster that hunts the other monsters.

It's a duty she carries out _judiciously_.

A meager hum escapes from her throat, creating a warm cloud in the frozen night air. Simple as it is, the act of doing so makes her chest ache furiously. Her lungs hang like weights in her sunken chest, sorely weakened from famine and illness. Just taking too deep a breath sets something in them rattling, splashing a wet warmth into the bottom of her throat.

To say Shrike is tired is an understatement. Between the cold, the nightmares, and the hunger, sleep is a luxury in this kind of life. The urgency of her mission does little to stave off the feeling of pure exhaustion weighing down her limbs, but like hell it'll stop her now. She's come too far to stop over something like this.

Maybe she'll take enough tonight to visit a doctor.

No.

Too dangerous. Too risky.

As if a doctor would agree to see her anyway. Money or no, someone like her isn't worth their valuable time. The thought makes her snarl, a reaction she immediately regrets.

Tickling in the back of her throat sets her teeth on edge. That snarl kicked up something from the pits of her lungs. Try as she might to resist, a scratching, tearing cough bursts forth in an explosion of pain. It's like a cat's been loosed in her throat, shredding the sensitive flesh of her larynx as it claws itself free.

Each hacking cough threatens to send her crashing to her knees.

She must stand firm. She _must_. There's work that needs to be done, and she's the only one brave or foolish enough to do it.

So she wipes the back of her hand across her cracked lips, doing the best she can to ignore the ruddy streak left behind. She doesn't want to know what the inside of her scarf looks like. Just imagining it makes her feel even more exhausted.

This job might be her last. Might as well make it a good one.

The back perimeter of the estate comes into view as she rounds a bend in the alley. A high, wrought-iron fence tipped in harsh spears rings the edge of the property. Just one poorly judged leap would result in any would-be intruder being brutally impaled. It's impossible to tell if the browned flakes along the bars are rust or evidence of such failed attempts.

An unnerving effect to be sure, though it does little to dissuade her. Not like she'll be going _over_ the fence, anyway.

Men patrol the grounds only half-looking for any signs of intrusion. They're all armed-their weapons glint in the moonlight-yet most appear checked out for the night. None seem to be expecting any sort of trouble, just as there hasn't been any for the past few weeks.

Shrike pities them somewhat. What's about to happen isn't _their_ fault. Even had they been alert, she'd have slipped by them just as easily as she's about to right now.

Despite what his security seems to think, the owner of this estate _does_ have good cause for such extreme measures. Three of this city's elite-two men and a woman-have been found dead in their mansions over the past three weeks. Their physical assets had been barely touched; only about as much as a single person could carry had gone missing from their vaults. Nothing ever heavy was taken, and certainly nothing ever traceable.

Food had been stolen as well. All of it being nonperishables, nothing too rich; things like loaves of bread, potatoes, and mysteriously enough, jars of peanut butter.

Mysterious of all, though, is that in each grisly murder, there's been absolutely zero sign of struggle. The bodies have been found with their throats grimly slashed all the way across, and inches deep, too. Yet, the looks on their faces had been frozen with expressions one could almost call _placid_. They looked as if they'd been caught unaware, no idea as to the death creeping up behind them.

That's not the most disturbing part.

What strikes the most fear into the heart of these high-society elites is not the state of the bodies themselves, but the message left behind. It's a simple, yet powerful trio of words _lovingly_ scrawled across the wall. A warning; painted bold and proud up on the wall above where the killer props up the victim almost as if on display.

 _"EAT THE RICH."_

So simple. So short. So terrifyingly effective at robbing those who fear they might be next of any sleep. Little do they realize that a tired mark is an easy mark.

Those are just the high-profile murders, too. Numerous rumors have shaken the island of mysterious killings spanning the past several years. Killings where the victims appeared not to have struggled in the slightest. Whose glassy eyes and faces had frozen not in horror, but in confusion.

No one knows who, or maybe _what_ has been responsible. The only hint has been that witnesses have reported seeing yellow eyes lurking in the dark, so bright as to almost be glowing.

Eyes filled to the brim with pure malice.

They've come to be known as the _Gilded Butcher_ , and it strikes fear into the heart of every greedy businessman, noble, pirate, corrupt marine, and crime boss the whole island over.

Many suspect it to be a vengeful ghost given how effortlessly it seems to slip past any defense. Not to mention how frugally it steals, almost as if it takes mementos rather than loot. Others think the _Butcher_ may simply be a professional assassin, so skilled as to be supernatural.

It's all wrong, of course. How could they ever guess the reality of the situation? That the _Gilded Butcher_ is but a sickly, malnourished waif? That she's one of the many nameless and faceless they trod underfoot every day? They'd first have to admit that one of the _undesirables_ is capable of possessing such agency, and that's just unconscionable.

Yet, this _Butcher_ , their bogeyman, is nothing more than just hungry, sickly little ol' Shrike _._

She doesn't feel bad for killing these people, if she can even call them that. All those she's killed were known to be wasteful or cruel, nothing but sadists or the unforgivably greedy. Those who hoard their wealth, who beat their servants, who contribute to the rampant crime throughout this city... _all_ are fair game in Shrike's hunt.

Hell, she feels more guilt about stealing from them than she does about killing them. As hungry and desperate as she is, others need the food and money more than she does. What little she takes, she does her best to discreetly distribute about the slums. Even if the others wouldn't have done the same, she'd never be able to live with herself if she didn't at least _try_.

This crusade of hers may not be justice in the eyes of the law, but it's the only justice she can afford to give when no one else is willing to do what needs to be done. Since when have the marines last cared for her, anyway? Not since the night she had to leave her childhood home...

Another cough tears itself from her lungs, searingly hot and disturbingly wet. A frown tugs at her chapped lips as the taste of iron fills her mouth. She sighs and sinks to the ground to catch her breath. Just how long has she been at this now? Years...

The way she felt after her first kill... she still remembers it clear as day. The feeling of his blood streaming down her face, the panic in his eyes as it sprayed from his throat... He'd pushed her too far that night, breaking something in her that had released a beast _desperate_ for blood. _His_ blood, specifically. It'd broken loose at the same time her ribs had, snapping as he rained down blows shouting every obscenity under the moon.

Shrike had broken the glass by accident, but slashing the broken shard across his throat had _not_ been. She'd brought it down on him just as purposefully as when she swept the floors and polished the tables, ever the dutiful serving girl.

That night had been the last straw that finally made her snap. Having suffered his abuse both physical and _physical_ , she gladly sacrificed both his life and her humanity to pay for her freedom. It was the least he could do after putting her through such a living hell when she was just trying to eke out a living. She'd so naively trusted him, accepted food and lodging for working at his inn. He threw it all in her face just like he did the stale beer patrons left on the bar come closing time.

The only regret she has over the whole thing is that she didn't kill him sooner, preventing her from wasting _years_ of her life with that abusive pig. The rage he'd instilled in her that night has remained a part of her as much as the memory of his dying face has.

But she can wax poetic about it some other time. Right now, it's time to get to work.

She takes the deepest breath she can muster, tuning out the rattling in her lungs. Her mantra fills her head: ' _I am nothing. I am nobody.'_

The magic words to activate her special talent, the one thing that's allowed her to be so successful in her crusade thus far: hiding in plain sight.

She'd discovered this talent some many, _many_ years ago. Before she'd even made that first kill, even. She'd been just a terrified little girl at the time, hiding in an alleyway _praying_ the slaver wouldn't find her. He'd chased her for hours to the point she'd been too tired to run anymore, and she'd resorted to prayers in some last-ditch effort to keep from being taken.

It was then that her Shroud first settled over her body, almost as if a gentle breeze had danced upon her skin. By some miracle, the man's eyes passed right over her as he walked past. He'd gotten so close she'd felt the heat radiating off his skin, yet turned away all the same.

The man never saw that little girl ever again.

It wasn't until recently, when the _hunger_ and injustice drove her to kill, that Shrike realized the true utility of her power. It's the only thing that's gotten her as far as she has. Killing is far easier when her prey has no idea what's about to strike.

And the meaning of the words? ' _I am nothing. I am nobody'_? That's just what the island wants her to be, to which she decided to do them the favor. If it meant bringing righteous vengeance down upon the people that perpetuate this cycle of misery, then she'd gladly become their nobody and more: their _Gilded Butcher_.

She repeats the words in her head, smiling as her Shroud settles upon her skin. The familiar feeling of safety quiets any of her lingering unease. ' _It's time to get moving.'_

Shrike slips through the iron bars of the fence with ease. It's obvious they're intended to stop _healthier_ bodies than hers. The jutting bones of her pelvis catch slightly, but it only takes a few adjustments before she's free.

It's but a short stroll across the yard, one that takes her right past several patrols. Each remains completely unaware of her presence as she walks right before their eyes. Her Shroud keeps her safely hidden.

Two guards lean against the wall next to the back door, blissfully unaware as she casually approaches. One of them prattles on and on, a bit too quickly for her to pick up on the topic at hand. The other seems to be only half listening.

"Isn't she just the cutest?" From the man's exuberance, and the photograph he's eagerly trying to show his more disinterested companion, Shrike can only assume he must be talking about a darling family member. His daughter, perhaps?

"For the last time, Erik, I don't want to hear about your damn dog anymore."

She stops, fingers freezing just as they brush against the frigid metal of the doorknob.

"Oh come on, look at her! Mimi is precious, you just don't want to admit it."

A warm smile tugs at the corner of her lips. She can't help but lean over and get a look at the photograph grasped so firmly beneath the man's calloused thumb. The edges of the paper are well-worn, clearly loved. Sure enough, she has to agree with him: Mimi is, indeed, quite precious. She's a tiny spitz of some kind, snow white and as fluffy as a cloud.

Shrike never could resist a cute face.

As much as she's always wanted a sweet lil' critter to call her own, trying to care for one in this kind of life would just be cruel. This is no way to live, and she'd never forgive herself for putting some innocent creature through this hell along with her. Still, that doesn't stop her from sharing what scraps she finds with the strays about the streets.

The men continue their back and forth, and she takes the cue to quietly open the door and slip inside.

She finds herself in what appears to be the servants' quarters, given the more banal appearance of the decor. It's dimly lit, the only light being the moonbeams streaming through the open doorways to her left and right. She peeks her head into each one, finding rows of beds each perfectly made and curiously empty. Nor are they any personal effects. The rooms are so sparse and lifeless as to make her shiver.

There's not a single soul to be seen or heard.

' _As it should be._ ' She muses.

The reason she's here is to kill the man that beat one of them so severely that she stumbled down the front steps and promptly died in the street. It only makes sense the other servants have long since fled for their lives.

Shrike returns to the short hallway she'd entered from, continuing down until she comes to a common area. A ghastly splash of blood mars the fall wall, obviously sprayed from a rough impact. She knows it to be from a meat tenderizer, given the details she's heard about the murder.

Sure enough, the doorway immediately adjacent to the splatter of red leads to the kitchen. A rack of various cooking tools hangs from the wall just on the other side of the archway, and there's a conspicuously empty spot where a tool appears to be absent.

Shame. She'd kind of wanted to kill him with the same tenderizer.

She lips off her hood and scarf to better bask in the warmth of the indoors. The air in here is nothing short of toasty, definitely warmed by more than just the barely glowing coals still smoldering in the hearth. This bastard is rich enough to afford powered heating! Thinking of all the people this warmth could keep from dying in the frozen air tonight...

If this is going to be Shrike's last hit, she's at least glad it's _this_ greedy son of a bitch.

She makes a point not to approach the kitchen. In her current state, the leftover smells from dinner would set her rabid; a lesson she's learned the hard way. The scents of roasted meat, warmly toasted bread-nostalgic and bittersweet-and aromatic, roasted veggies would be irresistible to her right now. A flood of saliva fills her mouth, almost running down her chin just thinking about it.

' _P_ _athetic._ _Reduced to a slavering mongrel at the thought of some breadcrumbs.'_

There'll be time to feast after she's done the deed and sent this monster back from whence he came. Even if it means she'll be joining him shortly after...

Guess she'll be eating well tonight.

She takes the hallway opposite the kitchen, sure it'll lead her to the main foyer. From there, she'll head to the master bedroom where, given the hour, her target should be sound asleep. That, or he's positively restless with the fear that the _Gilded Butcher_ may be coming.

Which she is.

Movement out the corner of her eye immediately snatches Shrike's attention. She's leaping backward on instinct alone, readily dropping to a defensive position. Before the balls of her feet even touch the floor, she's deftly flipped a shiv out from the ragged sleeve of her coat, full well ready to snap it towards the source of movement.

Which happens to be nothing more than a mirror, the movement having only been her reflection.

What a ghastly thing it is, too, this reflection of hers. With such a gaunt face, marked by the sallow pockets of her cheeks and the bruised-black bags beneath her eerie yellow eyes, there's simply no one else it could be but her.

It's no wonder the rumors have her pegged as a ghost. She certainly doesn't look fully humor.

The wan-yellowness of her irises does little to dispel the haunting effect. They're still sharp somehow, despite the hunger. They're not quite those of a mindless beast but closer to those of a starved predator calculating every chance to strike. These are the type of eyes that are the last thing one sees in the shadows before having their throat torn out; eyes found lurking in the dark of lost and forgotten places.

Lost and forgotten, just like she is.

Her ragged clothing barely clings to her frame. They give her a formless appearance in the darkness as if she's nothing more than a sentient gathering of shadows. The way they drape so loosely over her body only barely disguises the jutting bones of her half-starved state. She's always been a tall, gangling thing, but now the _hunger_ has twisted her form into a hunched a skulking ghoul.

It certainly doesn't help that with the sorry state of her short, ash-colored hair, that she looks rather androgynous. Nor does she have the body mass to fill out any typical feminine features aside from her naturally wide pelvis. Though, in this state, all that feature does is serve to make her look frighteningly insect-like.

 _*CRASH*_

The sudden sound of shattering glass makes her jump. Distant as it was-echoing from further down the hall-it immediately puts her right back on edge. A single voice, shouting something she can't quite interpret, chases the noise.

A sour frown splits across her face. ' _Does he know...?'_

No, he can't. That'd be impossible.

She snaps her hood and scarf back into place before padding down the hall, careful to maintain her Shroud all the while. As expected, it leads out to the main foyer. The front door lies directly before her, its doorknob and baseboard stained with splashes of crimson. ' _Blood... From the servant girl.'_

The spacious area is bathed in a dim, golden light, cast from a slightly ajar door to her right. Through it streams not just light, but voices.

 _Voices._

The bastard isn't alone, and from the frantic, pleading tone of the sniveling voice coming from the room, it's not exactly his security detail accompanying him.

' _Shit. Shit! Who the hell keeps guests at this time of night?!'_

Shrike grips the handle of her knife so tight she hears the bones in her knuckles creak. This hit just got a whole lot more complicated. She frantically thinks over whether she should postpone the deed for a few days. Would she even make it that long?

No. It has to be tonight. This is her last chance.

The whining voice she'd heard suddenly escalates, now shouting. Something is clearly wrong given the tone. The golden light cast upon the far wall wavers, now partially obscured by the shadow of someone quickly rising from a seated position. It begins gesticulating wildly, the panicked mannerisms now matching the tone the voice has taken on.

Shrike creeps closer, sure not to make a single noise. The wall creaks slightly as she presses herself flat against it, and she struggles not to hiss in frustration. Any noise right now could tip whoever's in there off to her presence. That's the last thing she needs right now.

Luckily, judging from the continued prattling of the man inside the room, it seems she remains undiscovered.

She sidles along the wall to get closer, and the specific words forming the man's maddened raving begin to take shape.

"I have money! Ships! All that you want! Just give me protection, _please_!" His weaselly voice sounds nothing short of desperate, the tone and substance of his words both indicating a plea for his life. Whoever he is, he's clearly terrified. Of what-or worse, _who-_ Shrike can only imagine. She kind of hopes it's her.

' _But what if it's not? Who's in there with him?'_

Her skin tingles as she pauses to reinforce her Shroud. Only when her safety seems secure does she finally peek inside.

A man, skin flushed stark red, paces about the space before the room's hearth. He wrings his hands like he's trying to squeeze the very blood from them. All the while his mouth runs with various pleas and offerings. She recognizes him to be none other than her intended target, the owner of this mansion and an utterly depraved worm. She'd recognize that deep-blue head of hair anywhere, even done up in a top knot as it is now.

He's not the most interesting in the room, though. Something-or rather _someone-_ else has her rapt attention.

' _Oh. Oh, holy fuck.'_

A very, _very_ large man sits reclined in a plush chair, opposite from where her mark struts about like a panicked chicken. Even sitting the way he is, Shrike can tell he's a frighteningly large human being, if he even is one. Not just large either, but _built_. He's muscular and fit, but not in the overly bulky kind of way. Svelte muscle.

This is the kind of beast she's heard tales of from the grand line.

Surely, with his dark, slicked-back hair and warm, tanned skin, there's no way he can be from this dreary place. The sun rarely shines on this island without its rays having to punch through dense cloud cover. Most people here are pale and fair-haired because of it. His appearance strikes her as hailing from a warmer, sunnier place. Somewhere with deserts of sand rather than fields of snow.

He's dressed quite well for the cold climate, despite his foreign appearance. A coat so thick it could keep her warm even through the most bitter of nights lies slung over the back of the chair. The fur collar flows so invitingly behind him that she can't help but imagine how comfortable it'd be hung about her shoulders. He wears an expertly fitted suit of charcoal grey, and though the mustard yellow shirt he's chosen clashes, it does so in an almost tasteful kind of way.

She can just tell he's the kind of rich bastard she despises more than anything else.

What draws Shrike's eye most of all is the long, jagged scar streaking across his face. It runs all the way across, the peaks and divots roughly hewn into the flesh about the bridge of his nose. Though the initial injury has long since closed, it's obvious it'd done so poorly. It's a permanent scar that'll never fully heal, and it only serves to make him all the more intimidating. As if his stature alone isn't enough.

It sits directly beneath his eyes, which themselves are impossibly dark and deep set. Though they look on her panicked mark with an almost lazy expression, Shrike can practically _feel_ the malicious intelligence lying beneath. These are the eyes of a cold and patient predator. One playing with its food, at that.

But it's not just his appearance alone that screams ' _danger!'_. Just looking at him sets all her senses ablaze. Every bell in her head rings in alarm. The very presence he maintains tells her that he's nothing short of an accomplished killer, but in a way that's entirely different from herself. This is a monster tempered in the flames of battle, someone whose lethality has her far more than just outclassed.

Shrike knows not a single thing about this man and yet she has no doubt he'd destroy her as easily as snapping his fingers.

Dread settles into her stomach like a dead weight. This is... this situation is... this _monster_ is... she can't even think straight. Against this man, she wouldn't stand a chance. Every instinct screams at her to flee. Flee and never look back lest he notice her and turn those predatory eyes her way instead.

A beast like this is the exact kind of person she makes a point to avoid; the kind that's _truly_ dangerous. Others can call her a coward for it, but she only sees it as playing smart. There's no point in taking on a fight she can't ever hope to win.

But she can't run. Her body won't let her. Something keeps her rooted to the doorway. Fear? Morbid curiosity?

All she can do is stand frozen in place and watch the scene unfold.

The scarred man lazily braces his cheek upon his right hand, left arm dangling over the other side of the chair. From the look in his eyes, he seems to be waiting for a chance to strike. Whether that be with words or action, Shrike can only imagine.

"You don't know what this _Butcher_ is capable of! They say it's not even human!" Her mark all but squeals, his shrill tone making her wince as it assails her ears. _Scar_ 's eyes, too, narrow slightly, annoyance now growing plain on his face. His lip twitches trying to contain it.

Despite the anxiety she can only describe as _existential_ instilled in her by this man, her target's pleas bring her a certain _glee_. Knowing she's struck such fear into this worm's heart so as to drive him to seek out a monster like _this_ for protection? It brings her an almost manic joy. Especially as it seems the beast he's summoned is far more interested in devouring him than giving him aid.

"Vigo," the dangerous-looking man purrs with a voice as deep as his predatory eyes. The rich tone spills from his lips, smooth as golden honey yet venomous all the same. It's a tone that dances down her spine a trail of blazing ice. "You seem to have mistaken my presence for sympathy."

Vigo-her victim's name apparently-attempts to stutter a response. "Wh-What?! You came all this way just to see me d-die? To see me slaughtered in my own home?!"

 _Scar_ coolly closes his eyes, lips curling slightly into an amused smirk. "So you're not such an idiot after all."

His words have an immediate effect on Vigo. He pales, mouth flapping open and shut uselessly. "S-Sir Crocodile?! You-! You-!"

' _Crocodile...? What a bizarre name.'_ But she has to admit: it's more than fitting. The scar on his face looks strikingly similar to the jagged maw of his namesake. ' _His birth name? Or maybe a chosen name_ _like mine_...' The more she muses over it, the more it seems familiar. Surely she would've heard of someone with such a strange name before?

A low, amused hum from this _Crocodile_ pulls her out of her head.

"You see, Vigo... I don't give a damn about what happens to you. Honestly, I was hoping you'd already be dead by the time I got here." He purrs, that richly venomous voice rumbling out almost playfully.

It's only now, as he casually leans forward, does Shrike notice the menacingly large hook adorning what used to be his left hand. It'd been obscured by the chair previously, but now that she's seen it, she can hardly tear her eyes from it. Crocodile makes a point to draw attention to it, bringing his left arm across his lap so as to rest his hand upon it. She would've thought it hilariously melodramatic if she weren't so rooted in fear.

The implement catches the glow of the low flames still licking about the fireplace, and it glints with a light that can only be described as sinister. There's not a single doubt in her mind that he's killed tens of dozens of people with the thing. Her imagination readily supplies an image of the metallic gold dripping red with blood.

Vigo starts to back up, retreating from the man he now realizes is nothing short of hostile towards him. He raises his palms in a show of submission, inching ever closer to the door Shrike is eavesdropping from. Even from here, she can spy how his legs have begun to tremble. "This is... you can't... _why?_ Sir, I have _never_ wronged you! Why-"

Crocodile cuts him off with an arrogant bark of laughter. That scathing, derisive sound cuts as deep as any blade. The way it _drips_ with undisguised malice chills her straight to the bone, setting her even more on edge.

Then, as quickly as it began, the noise stops dead in his throat. His eyes narrow, a sinister smirk twisting his lips. "Wronged? No, Vigo. Your very _existence_ is a slight to me."

He suddenly snaps his fingers, and Shrike damn near jumps out of her skin as a new body struts across the room. He must've been up against the same wall as the door, completely hidden from her current viewpoint. She still can't really get a good look at him, save for the fact that he is also _freakishly_ huge.

' _Does something about the Grand Line just do this to people?! Make them into these monsters?!'_

"Sir?" This new man's voice is somehow even lower than this Crocodile guy's, though with an inflection far less refined.

"Daz, our host seems to be trying to end our meeting early." Vigo bristles at Crocodile's words, spine stiffening as he freezes during what he must've thought to have been a sneaky retreat to the door. "We still have much to discuss. Please-" The word rolls from his lips, mockingly warm. He gestures with his hand to the couch opposite him. "-help him get comfortable."

The new man-' _Daz, is it?'_ -gives a single nod. "Of course, sir."

He moves into the glowing light of the fire, and from here Shrike can finally make out his features. His short, buzzed hair shines with a silvery glint much like hers used to, and his skin appears to be even more toned than the man she can only assume to be his boss of sorts. 'Definitely _not from here_.'

Unlike Crocodile, this guy really _is_ all bulky muscle. It's the kind of muscle useful not just for intimidation, but for beating the absolute paste out of anyone unfortunate enough to warrant it. They're just barely contained by his well-tailored suit, an expensive looking one at that. The black fabric looks practically shrink-wrapped to the muscles rippling along his limbs. A tie hanging loosely from his neck suggests a hint of apathy about his appearance.

She has a feeling he hadn't _chosen_ to dress this way so much as he was _ordered_ to.

The thought would've made her laugh in any other situation.

Daz saunters across the room over to Vigo, now standing stock-still in fear. He squeaks in fright as Daz clamps an intimidatingly massive hand down on his shoulder. "Let's get you _comfortable._ "

Vigo has no choice but to acquiesce, letting himself be pushed at the shoulder over to the couch Crocodile gestured at. He's not-so-gently pushed down into the center cushion, a pathetic yelp fleeing his throat as he falls. "P-please! Don't hurt me! I'll do whatever you want, _please_ _!_ "

The muscle-man rounds the couch, coming to a stop at the spot right behind Shrike's cowering, pleading mark. He lurks behind him, a menacing figure, before patting down on his shoulder again. Even from here, she sees the poorly contained smirk on his face as the action makes Vigo jump and tremble.

" _Whatever_ I want?" Crocodile hums, leaning back in the chair with a self-satisfied grin. He casually reaches into the coat behind him and rummages about in a pocket. "Well then."

He pulls forth a cigar and a lighter along with it.

"You see, Vigo. I don't care about _you_. All those things you mentioned earlier, though? Gold... Information...? Let's talk about those." He pauses to slide the cigar between his lips. His hand brings the lighter up, and he expertly lights it with but a single click of the wheel. Clearly, he's done this enough to get it down to an exact science.

He takes a long inhale before breathing out a cloud into the air above him. It settles around him nebulously, calling to mind the image of a predator lurking in the mists.

Ephemeral as it is, Shrike's throat immediately constricts itself in caution, completely halting the movement of air in her lungs. Even the slightest breath of the stuff would send her into a coughing fit in her current state. Then they'd _surely_ find her.

"I care about your assets, and how they can become _my_ assets. So, you have two options." He pauses to take another long puff, deliberately drawing out the tension despite already having full control over the scene.

She can tell he's played this game far too many times. ' _What an i_ _nsufferable prick.'_

Regardless, the melodrama seems to be working its magic on Vigo. The twit's trembling so hard she can hear the couch legs rumbling against the floor from all the way over here.

"One, you can surrender all that you own to me right now, then scurry off this wretched island as fast as you can before this..." He takes a moment to swish the cigar in the air, letting the smoke trail about for effect. Even as scared as she is, Shrike struggles not to roll her eyes at his theatrics. "... _Butcher..._ ends your pathetic little life."

Rage sparks through her chest.

' _WHAT?!_ _How DARE you!'_ She grits her teeth, a bout of fury quickly beginning to broil in her core. That this... this... this _ass_ thought he could _use_ her?! This worm's death was intended to be an act of _justice_ , not for some bastard like him to use it- _her_ -as a power play!

Crocodile continues as nonchalantly as though he were discussing dinner plans. "Or, two... I can just relax on my ship. Wait this out. This _Butcher_ will make an example of you sooner rather than later, given the way you've drawn their eye with that spot of cruelty on that poor servant girl." He rests the cigar between his fingers, his arm now cockily propped up on the arm of the chair. "You wouldn't have called me otherwise if you didn't think the same."

Shrike wants nothing more than to slap the arrogant sneer off his face, mouth and all. The fear has just about drained out of her, now replaced with bubbling rage. ' _I am_ not _your tool! I'm not_ anyone's _tool!'_

He suddenly rises, pulling himself from the chair. It's only now that he's standing that she's forced to truly interpret just how impossibly tall the guy is. Even as wilted as the hunger has made her, she isn't exactly _short_ herself at 6'2. Yet, somehow, this _beast_ definitely has at least two additional feet on her height.

Just like that, the fear comes creeping back in.

He saunters across the room, moving with a surprising amount of grace for someone of his size. The firelight strikes across his features just right as he approaches the hearth, somehow making him look handsome in the low light. He comes to a stop right in front of Vigo, but rather than leaning down to speak into his face, he cockily rocks backward to rest on a heel. His hook crosses over his midsection, other arm holding the cigar aloft to the side.

"Just as you've asked, I'll come swooping in to save you. But it'll be just _slightly_ too late. You'll already be dead. Tragic." He lifts the cigar back to his lips, taking another self-satisfied inhale of the sweetened smoke before puffing it down into Vigo's paled face. The sneer that twists his face is insufferable. "And before your blood can dry on the walls, I'll take ev-e-ry-last-thing you own."

He finishes with a shrug, the movement of his hand drawing more trails of swirling smoke through the air. "It's your choice, Vigo. Either way, I leave this dump with what I want. The only variable here is your life."

The very air around him _oozes_ a narcissistic malice that very nearly makes Shrike retch. The only thing she despises more than corrupt bastards are _smug_ corrupt bastards, the ones that think they're such hot shit. And boy, does this pompous fuck bask in the musk of his own ego.

In the few minutes she's been observing him, she knows two things: that she both utterly despises him... and that she's in complete _awe_ of him. This man is shrewd, clearly cunning. He commands the kind of presence she can only dream of, able to make a sniveling worm like Vigo grovel before him with nothing but melodrama. And yet, she has no doubt about killing prowess.

Without having even seen him in action, she is absolutely terrified of what he's capable of.

Everything tells her to run. Get the hell out of here.

Her prey thus far have been weak, simpering mites like Vigo, not lethal killing machines like this Crocodile guy. With a body as sick and malnourished as hers, there's no way she can ever hope to fight back against someone of any real strength. Amonster like him would tear her apart himself if he didn't order his manservant to do it for him so he could watch over a nice glass of wine.

' _NO! No, this has to end tonight!'_ There's no promise she'll make it long enough to scout out another target, and like hell she'll let herself drop dead without taking someone else with her. This calls for a change in plans.

Shrike may have come here to kill Vigo, but this Crocodile guy... Without even knowing who exactly he is or what he's done, she _knows_ he's as bad as any other monster she's slain.

"...P-please. Please no." Vigo is beyond pale, paler than the moon hanging in the window across the room. He looks about to fall from the couch entirely, ready to sink to his knees in a terrified grovel.

She kind of hopes he'll cry.

The hulking manservant lingering behind the couch suddenly clears his throat, seeking permission to speak.

"Do you have something to add, Daz?" Crocodile addresses him. A hint of excitement eats away at the arrogance on his face.

"Sir, we could just kill him now. Slit his throat, write that message on the wall. There's no need for the _Butcher_ themselves to come and do it when we can do it ourselves. No one would ever know." Daz replies coolly. _T_ _oo_ coolly, like he's talking about a nice date and not the brutal murder of some man in his own home.

Vigo squeaks as he jerks upwards, spine straight and stiff with terror. Shrike can see lines of sweat rolling down his forehead, the way his entire body quivers in fear.

Crocodile has the exact opposite reaction, almost melting into himself as he leans back even more. He takes a long draft of his cigar before releasing a grey stream of the smoke upwards towards the ceiling. His grin is almost _warm_ when he returns his companion's gaze.

"This is exactly why I keep you around."

Daz returns that grin as he begins cracking his knuckles. "Would you like me to do the honors, Sir?"

Vigo falls off the couch with a panicked scream. There's a loud crack as his knees meet the floor, but it deters him not. He begins crawling towards the door, sobbing all the while in pure terror.

"By all means." Crocodile turns at that, heading to recline against the wall next to the hearth. A lovely space to watch the brutality about to unfold.

Without another word, Daz begins to advance on her target. Only, he's now _their_ target too... and that pisses her right the hell off.

All the work she's done has been intended for the greater good, like scraping an infection from a rotting wound. It's ugly, painful, and gruesome, but it's necessary before the damage caused by her victims can begin to heal. Now, these men intend to benefit off her hard work; turn the blood she's spilled into their own gain.

Seeing her virtuous mission twisted into just another means of profit by the very type of people she reviles fills her with indescribable fury. Shrike's blood boils, turning into nothing but pure venom that burns her from the inside out.

The handle of her shiv digs roughly into her calloused palm, while the other two strapped to her arm almost vibrate in excitement. With a few well-aimed throws, she can end this before they even know what's happened. She has surprise on her side, just like she always does.

"N-NNO NO NO NO PLEASE WAIT!" Vigo flips onto his back, now scrambling backward against the wall to the right of the room. His eyes shoot to the doorway where she hides in the shadows. He's looking for an escape where she knows there isn't one. Lucky for her, the position he's crawled to has made him a clear shot.

Daz advances on him with the intent to kill.

' _What are you doing!? You need to move NOW before this guy steals your kill!'_

Right as she's about to throw her blade, something _weird_ happens. Where Daz's arm was once a normal, if not absurdly muscular, arm... it suddenly takes on a metallic sheen before transforming entirely. From the edge of his right forearm spawns a blade, as if he's grown a sword from wrist to elbow. Its edge glints in the low light of the fire, a warning as to how gruesomely sharp it is.

The suddenness with which it happens-mind not able to process what she's seeing-makes Shrike gasp.

 _Audibly._

Three sets of eyes whip to the doorway, now very aware this is no longer a private affair.

"H-help! Whoever you are, please! They're going to kill me!" Vigo cries out, his pleas desperate. Tears stream down his puffy face.

Crocodile's eyes narrow and his brow furrows, body language immediately tense. He tosses the cigar onto the lintel of the fireplace and glares intensely into the darkness of the doorway where Shrike prays he can't see her.

"It seems one of your servants hasn't fled yet, Vigo. How unfortunate for them." He jerks his head over to where Daz stands with his bladed arm still poised over Vigo and barks an order. "Deal with the eavesdropper first."

' _FUCK. FUCK. SHIT FUCK.'_ Shrike's far too rattled for her Shroud to take effect. She bet this entire plan on being able to strike while undetected, killing them from the shadows before they have a chance to react. There's no way she'll be able to outrun them in her current condition, and running away to re-hide herself isn't an option. He'd probably catch up at barely a jog.

No, there's only one option left.

She grasps her blade so tightly it feels like the skin of her palm might split open about the handle. She has three of them on her, each lovingly sharpened to slice through flesh and bone even when thrown from a distance.

She'll at least take out Vigo: complete what she came here to do. If the last thing she ever sees is his dying face, then that's mission accomplished. Once Vigo goes down, she'll use both the remaining knives on Crocodile. The manservant, Daz, doesn't give her nearly the same vibes as his boss does. Not to mention with his size, even should the first strike true, Crocodile will probably need both knives to fully take him down anyways.

Yet, something in her tells her what a fool's errand this is. As much as she wants it, as much as she _needs_ it... she knows there's no way she'll be able to kill this man. But damn if she isn't going to try.

She'll throw her blades and pray to at least _scratch_ him. They'll undoubtedly catch her. _Hurt_ her. If they do decide to interrogate-torture her-at least there's the solace that her poor body will give out before too long.

Shrike's going to die here, but at the very least she'll take _someone_ down with her.

Daz crosses the room at a cautious pace, bladed arm held warily in front of him. She can tell now that he's far smarter than he initially appeared. His hulking frame belied a certain intelligence she hadn't expected, now only revealed by his undue caution.

She waits for him to get closer. Adrenaline pumps through her system, giving her a clarity she's never before experienced. This is the first time she's ever needed it. The first time her prey has ever been actively aware of her presence.

' _This is it.'_

He kicks the door fully open as he reaches the frame. The light of the room spills out into the once pitch hallway, and Shrike moves before he can get a good look at her. He moves to grab her as she springs forward, but she's faster than expected. She slips right through his fingers, the digits only finding loose fabric and air instead of the fuller body he'd expected.

A frustrated snarl sounds over her shoulder as she rolls beneath his outstretched leg. She flips two of the knives between her fingers mid-roll, one per hand. The way they lightly cut into the skin, nerves stinging in warning, tells her they're more than sharp enough to kill.

Vigo shrieks just as she completes her roll. She lands on the balls of her feet only a few feet before him, but her balance goes off-kilter. Her body doesn't respond with the agility she needs it to.

' _No time to correct!'_

The first of the blades leaves Shrike's fingers with a snap of her wrist, sent flying towards the quivering man. It shoots across the gap between her and Vigo, and a sickening crunch fills the room as it buries itself in her mark.

His agonized cry echoes about the room, and Shrike's heart drops into her stomach.

Dead men don't scream like that.

Her aim had been off, the knife sinking deep into his right eye instead of between them as intended. Nor had it gone deep enough to cause more serious damage, as several inches of the blade remain between the hilt and his face.

He could easily survive this.

But she doesn't have time to change plans.

Shrike pivots her body with a frustrated hiss, angling herself to face her new prey. Crocodile has barely moved, save to use the lintel as a prop to rest his cheek on his fist again. The expression on his face is nothing short of _bored_.

The casualness of his demeanor only pisses her off even more.

' _I'll wipe that dumb expression off your face!'_

She channels that rage into her next throw, aiming straight for between the eyes again.

The blade slides from her fingers, straight and true. It's a perfect throw, and the realization rapidly fills her with glee. Has she done it? Really succeeded in killing this bastard? Killing Vigo may have been a failure, but he's small fry compared to this monster. She can't think of a more perfect final ki-

The knife passes right through him.

It thuds into the wall behind his head, and he stands there entirely unfazed.

"Wha-what?" Shrike barely gasps out, utterly frozen in shock. He merely looks at her with that lazy expression, not even having flinched.

She doesn't get any time to process what in the hell's just happened as Daz finally catches up to her. He's not gentle about it.

His hand clamps down on her right wrist. He stretches her arm outwards before punching straight upwards into the elbow joint. Shrike hears the snap before her senses process it, a sickening sound that makes her stomach flip.

And then it comes.

Shooting, agonizing pain radiates all up and down her arm. It tears from her throat a ragged scream as she begins falling to her knees. Her other arm desperately tries to cradle its brutalized sibling. A sudden, hard blow across her back sends her thudding downwards. It rips another cry from her, this one sounding strangled as the air vacates her lungs from the force of the blow.

Her face roughly skids across the floor on impact. It stops only when the force of her assailant's hand presses her head roughly down against the ground. His other hand, now adorned with bladed fingers, presses against her throat, ready to slit her open with but a single word from his boss.

She kind of hopes he does. If only to put her out of this agony.

This pain is way behind anything she's felt in decades.

Each breath feels forcefully stolen from the air around her. A god-awful rattling fills the air with each gasping inhale, the noise wet and sickening. Her chest is unbelievably tight, and an acrid, metallic tang has rapidly begun spilling into her mouth. Everything is hot and cold somehow all at once, as though she's suffering from freezing chills and burning fever both.

Her arm lies twisted uselessly to the side, bent at a disturbing angle. It hurts so bad she feels it everywhere, too much pain for just one limb to contain. Her chest begins to shudder as her body tries to find the energy to cough. Anything to stave off the drowning death filling her lungs. The hacking cough that comes is anything but relieving. It brings a searing pain that turns her vision white with stars as congealed globs of black and crimson spill onto the floor before her.

The existential pain sets in as she sees the gruesome splatter. That blow had been far more lethal than probably intended, her assailant not knowing the condition she's in. A sense of _wrongness_ permeates her entire being as her conscious mind realizes what her body has already been aware of...

Shrike is _dying._

The realization makes her want to sob. Sob in fear, in anger, in despair... Death is something she's been longing after for years, why is she suddenly so afraid of it now?

The event's lasted only but a few seconds, but it feels as though the world itself has slowed to make it feel like hours. A few more of those agonizingly long seconds pass. The only sounds to be heard are her wet, ragged breaths and Vigo's pained whimpers.

Crocodile's dry voice suddenly fills the air, breaking the almost silence. "Hrm. I think you broke it. Whatever _it_ is."

His words echo in a way they should not be. Shrike's senses are already faltering.

In one fluid movement, Daz temporarily relieves the pressure from her skull as his hand moves to forcibly tear the hood and scarf from her face. He roughly grabs her chin and tilts her face upwards to make sure his boss can get a good look at her.

And so _she_ can get a good look at _him_.

At some point in the scuffle, Crocodile picked the cigar back up. He casually puffs on it as he stares down at her. His dark eyes examine her unblinking, unwavering, not betraying a single motion save maybe amusement.

"Judging by your eyes, you must be this _Gilded Butcher_. Not a ghost, but a half-starved human being all along... and judging by your cries, a woman at that." He muses, eyes scanning over Shrike's battered frame where Daz has her pinned to the floor. " _Vigo_ , you were scared of _this_?"

She spits a glob of disease onto the floor, trying to make room in her throat to just _breathe_ dammit! ' _Not yet... not yet...! I need... to know...!'_

The air rattles through her lungs as she struggles to take a breath deep enough to form words.

"H-how...the knife...through you..." Her voice is shaky, only just barely audible. It's laden heavily with pain and choking blood.

He drops the cigar for good this time, stamping it out with his heel before closing the gap with a few casual strides. He sinks to his haunches before her to get a better look at her face, using the blunt curve of his hook to hold her chin up higher. Whatever he sees makes him grimace. A look mixed between disgust and pity crosses his features.

It fills her with indignant rage.

"Don't... don't... pity me... jackass!" Shrike tries to shout, but what comes out is nothing more than tired panting.

The last thing she wants as she drowns in her own lungs is to be pitied. Daz's fingers tighten about her throat in warning, blades lightly cutting into her skin. The sensation practically tickles in comparison to the pain radiating from her broken arm and the swelling in her lungs.

He merely raises his brow in amusement. "Precious. Still a little fight left in you yet, _Butcher_."

His good hand suddenly comes up before her face, palm outstretched to face the ceiling. She looks on blankly, rage making way for confusion.

"You wanted to know how?" He almost hums the words, each one suffused with his own smugness. The flesh of his hand ripples, and at first she wonders if it's just her senses now fading away completely. Then the appendage vanishes entirely.

She blinks her eyes, struggling to process what's happened. Lazy streams of particulate matter pass before her face. They dance through the air almost as if on their own accord.

' _This color... sand!?'_

His honeyed voice cuts through the confusion and pain. "I'm a logia, sweetheart. Nice try though, you _do_ have good aim."

' _...Logia...devil fruit...?'_

He collects the particles back together, reforming his hand. It changes from coarsely textured tan back to his natural skin tone right before her eyes. Even then, she can still hardly believe it. Shrike's no stranger to devil fruits, but the time since she'd last seen one in action could be measured not in years, but _decades_.

He uses the reformed hand to pat her head before standing back up to full height. The condescension forces from her a wet, rippling snarl. So many words, so many insults and obscenities flit through her head, but she doesn't trust herself to speak them with the energy and vitriol this bastard deserves.

Shrike spits at his feet instead, hocking a wet glob of disease onto the floor in the space between them.

Crocodile merely looks down at her, his face initially blank before a hint of amusement flicks at his lips. He makes no other response before walking past her, heading over to where Vigo still lies whimpering on the far side of the room. Daz lets her flop back to the floor, though he tilts her head so she can watch what's ab out to unfold.

Her face is turned just as Crocodile crouches down before Vigo. He clucks his tongue in mock pity. "Poor, poor Vigo. It seems the _Butcher_ you've feared all along has come and done you in."

"P-Please. Help me. I'll give you everything. _Please_." He moans pleadingly, his voice weak and trembling as his hands paw at the knife still embedded in his eye. Blood runs down his face, a startling crimson in contrast to his pale complexion.

Crocodile only hums, cocking his head to the side. "Corpses don't speak, Vigo."

Vigo suddenly jerks and screams, Crocodile's fingers wrapping about the hilt of the blade lodged in his face. In one swift motion, he pulls it from the wounded man's eye socket before bringing it down across his throat.

The room fills with gurgling cries as Vigo chokes on the blood filling his throat and mouth, the sounds being somehow even more sickening than the ones she's been making thus far. He thrashes about for only a few moments, movements steadily dampening as the life oozes from his slit throat.

He lies still.

Dead.

Crocodile waits a few moments more. His eyes pore over the body, checking for any hints of lingering life. When none seem apparent, he finally stands with a satisfied grin on his face. He turns to face Shrike and Daz once more, the bloodied knife dangling in his hand.

He casually tosses it in their direction, where it skids across the floor before coming to a rest in front of her nose.

"I would've let you do the honors, _Butcher_ , but in your current state I doubt you can even _grip_ the blade."

Though her vision had been steadily graying, her rekindled fury makes her see red.

With a snarl, Shrike's unbroken arm darts forward to grab the bloodied knife. Her wrist is already snapping forward before Daz can stop her, and the blade is sent flying back Crocodile's way. It's more of a message than anything else, a release of this helpless frustration building up inside her. She doesn't exactly expect it to hit, knowing he can become incorporeal at will.

Yet it slashes him across his left forearm, right on the wrist where it connects to his hook.

He looks just as shocked as she does, eyes widening at the blood dripping down his arm, dying that golden hook red.

Shrike has little time to celebrate, though. Daz yanks her upwards, bending her back against his chest as his claws dig tightly into her throat.

But it doesn't matter. She no longer has the strength to keep herself lucid. The world around her steadily dims, the intricate details of things blurring into formless masses and grey shapes. Her body is freezing and burning all at once, and everything trembles in a mixture of terror and sickness.

With the last strength she has left, Shrike's body instinctively tries to save itself.

"H-hide... hide..." The whispers fall from her bloodied mouth with a mind of their own.

Useless as it is, the feeling of her Shroud settling over her feverish skin is comforting nonetheless; a blanket for the final sleep.

She manages to shoot Crocodile one more look, wanting to see him bleed a bit more before her body finally gives out. He's staring back, an expression on his face she hadn't expected.

Curiosity?

"Stand down Daz...this one is interesting..." He orders, eyes flicking between the blood running down his wrist and the bladed claw Daz has pressed to her throat. She barely feels the blades retract.

"It seems you have your own tricks up your sleeve..." Crocodile looks at Shrike quizzically, his expression tinged with a hint of awe. "How do you do that, I wonder? My eyes can't seem to focus on you."

He takes a few steps forward, moving to grab her chin. Those dark eyes pierce through the haze of hers as if searching for the answers she doesn't have the strength to vocalize.

Except she barely registers it, static buzzing in her ears as her senses fizzle out. Each breath feels impossible to take, chest tightening in a vice as the blood rattles in her throat. It grows fainter and fainter with each ragged inhale.

Her eyes slide shut for what she believed to be the last time, consciousness tumbling into the abyss.

* * *

Shrike awakes with a start, her body and sheets slick with sweat.

At some point, she'd fallen asleep while mulling over the events of the day, tumbling right into a nightmare.

 _'But why dream that of all things...'_

It's possible that what happened this afternoon, what she'd _learned_ , had sent her consciousness on a desperate quest to reason how she ended up in this position in the first place. So much so, that it tapped into the memories of where this all began. That one fateful evening over a full year ago...

Needless to say, they managed to save her. Crocodile dragged her broken, sickly body to his ship's doctor, a surprisingly warm and kind woman named Ellia. She somehow saved her, and she awoke a few days later strapped down in the medbay hooked up to IVs pumping her full of military-grade antibiotics and supplements.

Shrike groans and sits up. The bruises Daz dealt her earlier ache furiously, and she's sure her flesh is mottled grisly shades of purple and blue. The back of her legs where he swept them out from under her, her upper back and shoulders from how she landed, and, of course, the ragged mess of her knees... each site makes itself known as she stands and stretch.

 _'What time is it anyway?'_ She glances at the clock on her nightstand: 4 a.m.

 _'Great, might as well just stay up...'_


	5. Nightmares, Dreams, and Reality

**Chapter Summary:** Shrike wakes from her nightmare to find that, miraculously, she's still alive. The implications of this outcome being... a little too much for her to unpack. Lucky for her, a friend shows up that helps her through it.

 **Author Notes:** Glad to see you're still with me! This was a really fun chapter to write, and I hope you'll be able to tell why. As always, reviews and messages are very much appreciated! I'd really like to hear what y'all think.

* * *

4 a.m.

It's far too late for Shrike to readily fall back asleep. Nor is she exactly eager to jump right back into another nightmare.

Her entire body pops and creaks as she stretches, the bruises Daz inflicted on her crying out for attention all at once. It's a wonder she fell asleep in the first place what with how sore she is, or that she slept as long as she did...

Shrike stops mid-stretch as the realization hits her.

She _did_ sleep for a while. Meaning... no one had come to fetch her.

No one came to _kill_ her.

Shrike is still alive.

Did... Did Crocodile really not... Does he not hate her? Does he not want to kill her?

Daz's words fly into her mind with a reckoning: ' _He sees a lot in you... I'd rather you not disappoint him.'_

Confused doesn't even begin to describe how she's feeling right now. The implications of his statements are far too complicated to unpack, and her thoughts run wild trying to process them.

What if... What if Crocodile really does like her? Not _like_ like her, that's absurd. She's not even sure if she wants feelings like that from him in the first place. A ruthless, scheming pirate captain fancying her? One whose infamy is known all around the world? Just because he's dashing and charismatic does _NOT_ mean she wants him that way... even with that rogueish, handsome grin of his... or his charmingly questionable fashion sense... or his toned b-

Oh no.

Shrike's heart races, thumping wildly in her chest like some out of control beast.

' _No! No no no no no! What is wrong with you!? Crocodile is a_ monster _! And you used to_ hate _him, remember?!'_

 _Used_ to hate him.

 _Used to_.

When Shrike had woken in the medbay a few days after they'd brought her back, she'd been practically rabid. She'd fought against her restraints despite the sickness still ravaging her body, utterly enraged at being saved by scum like _him_. To not only have the gall to spare, but _treat_ the beast that would've torn his throat out had it the strength to do so? Shrike despised him for it, and plotted his murder from the very minute she woke up.

But like any man who fancied pets as dangerous as bananawani, Croc' knew to offer the beast what it _actually_ wanted. The promise of regular meals, a roof over her head, and more gold a month than she'd ever seen in her life had quickly tamed the _Gilded Butcher_. Well, tamed everything save for her foul mouth and sour attitude; those remained just as wild and disobedient as the evening he dragged her sickly half-corpse back to the ship.

Still, the hypocrisy of the situation was not lost on her. It initially had her sick with guilt as she acclimated to her new life. After the first few months, though, as her body grew stronger and healthier, the last shreds of lingering doubt finally fled her conscious.

She rationalized that, in a way, she's still bringing justice to the world; anyone that Croc' sends her after is undoubtedly wicked and probably deserves what's coming to them. Maybe it's not for the right reasons, but at least she's not doing it starved and sickly anymore.

And those doubts weren't the only thing that left her, either. At some point-she's not exactly sure when-she'd stopped hating him.

The disgust she'd felt for Crocodile had steadily fallen away over the past year. Living and working with him had shown her more of his surprisingly charming personality, and that's just what he _willingly_ displayed. Being able to lurk in the shadows when no one thought she was there, she'd witnessed the pieces of him that he works so hard to hide away; the hints of a hidden warmth that lurks beneath that public-facing persona of a cold and ruthless pirate captain.

Apparently, she'd liked what she'd seen more than she first thought.

 _'Don't even go there! He's an ass and falling for him will only get you killed!'_ She furiously shakes the thoughts from her head as the pressure in her chest builds. An uncomfortable unease descends upon her, anxiety balling in her gut.

Confusing feelings flood her conscious as she blushes furiously at herself, her face burning hotter the more she thinks about it all. This infatuation needs to be killed and buried before it's too late; these silly, girlish hopes that someone like _Crocodile_ could ever feel anything more for her than just contempt. She's much too old to entertain such idylls.

' _Stupid, stupid Shrike! You don't_ like _him, you've just latched on to him because he's the first person to show you any real attention! Cut this shit out!'_

She smacks her palms to her cheeks, hoping the sting will chase out these annoying thoughts. There's no room for such feelings in this life; all they'll do is get her killed. Crocodile would sooner turn her into dust on the wind than tolerate such ideas.

There's only _one_ thing certain that's come out of all this: that Croc' apparently _does_ harbor a certain level of favoritism towards her. Whether that carries anything else with it...

She groans aloud, spinning in a dramatic circle before flopping down onto her bed. "Stop stop stop! You're being stu-"

 _*Scritch scritch*_

A slight scratching noise suddenly gets Shrike's attention, stopping the words dead in her throat.

 _*Scritch scritch*_

Her face splits into a warm grin, and the anxiety drains from her as if a plug's been pulled in her gut. This might be just what she needs right now.

 _*Scritch scritch*_

"I'm coming, I'm coming. Hold on." She mutters past her smile as she pushes herself from the bed and hurriedly pad over to the door. She hopes she hasn't kept her guest waiting too long, the thought making her feel more than a little guilty. Shrike never did like disappointing them; the crew would be disappointed in her no matter _what_ she did. Her guest though? That's different.

The door sounds a slight groan as she pulls it inward, as if it were complaining about being used at this hour. To anyone else, the hallway appears empty, though that'd be because they were looking at people-height. Shrike's eyes trail downwards to the floor, crinkling at the edges as she bends to usher her friend inside.

"Good evening, Phoebe. I hope you haven't been sitting out here too long. Sorry for not letting you in before bed."

A rather tiny crocodilian blinks up at her, its coral-colored scales glinting in the low light of the hallway. An impatient grumble hisses from her maw as she fixes Shrike with lovely red eyes, like little rubies.

She doesn't make a move to enter, waiting for the royal treatment she's come to expect from her newfound human friend.

"Alright, alright." Shrike huffs playfully before crouching down, doing her best to ignore the pain in her knees as she does so. "Urh, come here baby."

The little reptile hisses as she's scooped beneath her front legs. Shrike's spent enough time with Crocodile's pets to understand their moods from the noises they make, and this is, undoubtedly, a delighted hiss.

Phoebe-sorry, Phobos, but like hell is Shrike going to call this sweet little thing _that_ -is the smaller of Croc's two current pets. Tiny and pink, to say Shrike was surprised to see such a cute little thing owned by a serious man like _him_ is an understatement. Deimos, on the other hand, is the exact kind of creature she'd expected. More than living up to his name, the sizable bananawani poses quite the intimidation factor.

That doesn't change the fact that he loves snuggles just as much as little Phoebe does. Both of them regularly seek Shrike out for some loving, apparently not getting enough from Crocodile himself despite how much he spoils them. The crew certainly don't contribute much. They're all terrified of the poor things, save for Daz.

Hell, Shrike still remembers how Croc' had paled upon finding her giving Deimos belly rubs the first time. He'd been so absolutely sure she was about to be eaten, but the big gator had merely danced and wiggled beneath her fingers, absolutely reveling in the physical attention.

She makes a point to spend much of her free time with them, either letting Phoebe snuggle up with her in bed or on the couch, or even joining Deimos topside for a nice soak in the sun. The big boy is much too large to fit in the narrow hallways below deck, unlike tiny Phoebe. The only space he fits in is in the cargo hold, where he has a special gator-door that lets him swim up from underneath. He's pretty down in the hold right now, even. Getting a good night's sleep, unlike her.

Her affection for the creatures is one of the reasons she has such a tense relationship with the crew. Besides Croc', of course, they hesitate to approach anytime the beasts are near, knowing how territorial they can be. Not that Shrike minds. She much prefers animals to people, anyway.

Animals don't lie.

"You're getting heavy, he needs to stop giving you so many treats." Phoebe hisses again as Shrike lets her crawl onto her shoulders, draping herself about the back of her neck. The pressure has Shrike groaning, especially as Phoebe's little feet dig into the bruises Daz put there earlier.

She's only about the size of a house cat, but Phoebe's a dense little thing; at around twenty-five pounds now and only getting heavier by the day. Croc' said she won't grow nearly as large as Deimos, but the thought of her getting any bigger leaves Shrike a little disappointed. She'll also turn a deeper scarlet color as she matures… and that just makes Shrike sad, too.

If it were up to her, she wouldn't change a damn thing about the little beast. Phoebe's perfect just the way she is right now: tiny and pink and one-hundred percent adorable.

"Are you here to give me company for the rest of the evening?" Shrike coos at her, reaching a hand up to scratch at the little crocodilian's chin. "Or am I to be the one giving _you_ company?" Another delighted hiss sounds from her maw, and she tilts her snout upwards to be scratched exactly where she wants it.

"I see then." She muses at her little friend. "Will you tolerate me getting cleaned up at least?"

Phoebe hisses an affirmative noise, clever enough to understand Shrike's words. Crocodile's gushed enough about his pets for Shrike to know that Phoebe belongs to a frighteningly intelligent species, one known for often rivaling _human_ intelligence. If the man talks passionately about _anything_ , it's his precious babies. Though he'd probably kill Shrike just for referring to them as such.

' _But he didn't kill you earlier._ ' The voice in her head chips in.

No. No, he didn't. Not to mention what Daz said: ' _Never you...'_

Phoebe nibbles impatiently at Shrike's ear, wondering why the hand that'd been scratching her has stopped moving.

"Sorry, sorry." She promptly apologizes and resumes petting the spoiled beast, eager to forget all about what happened today... and all about her frustrating feelings. "The only fluffy feelings I need are the ones for you, isn't that right?" Shrike coos at her affectionately as she walks over to the private bathroom adjoining her quarters.

It's time to get these wounds cleaned up; the cuts on her knees are at risk of infection at this rate.

She flicks the light on without thinking, not giving them ample time to brace for its intensity. It's annoying bright compared to the relative dimness of her bedroom, and it has both her and her scaley little hitchhiker hissing in annoyance.

"Apologies, my lady." Her fingers rush to scritch beneath Phoebe's chin again. A peace offering.

A crackling noise lets her know she's forgiven.

Shrike turns her attention towards the mirror, and the way Phoebe's reflection blinks asynchronously in the light-first one eye and then the other-soon has her giggling. She watches as the pink menace leans affectionately into her fingers with each scratch, but the more Shrike's gaze lingers, the more her attention is drawn to skin rather than scale.

The woman in the reflection is so very different than the one she'd seen in her nightmare, yet somehow the very same. This healthy, toned body definitely belongs to Shrike, but as it always is when she sees her reflection, she can scarce believe it. This is not the image she'd become accustomed to seeing up until a year ago.

It's not the _hunger_.

Shrike's fingers move from Phoebe's chin to touch her face. She half expects the healthy skin there to peel off as she traces her cheekbones, as if it were but a mask hiding the gaunt face she's more familiar with underneath. The skin that'd once clung so tightly to her jaw, tracing out each and every divot, has been filled with much-needed padding. She still has rather strong features, namely her squarish jaw and cheekbones, but at least they now look _healthy_.

Her skin especially has healed quite nicely. The once pale, sallow flesh-almost translucent beneath the sun-has tanned to a warm ivory that's honey-toned in some places. Her cheeks have even regained their natural rosy complexion, the color pairing with her lips now that they've filled out. No longer so badly chapped as to bleed from just the ghost of a smile, her lips look almost plush now, and have settled on a pale pinkish hue.

Aside from the mottled purple bruise marring her chin, she looks far healthier than the woman in her nightmare. The person she _used_ to be. Maybe not exactly _beautiful_ , but she definitely looks better than she used to.

Her hair looks much better, too. As she reaches back to tie it up into a lazy bun, she remarks at how doing so back then would've cracked the strands to dust. It's so long now, a veritable mane of untamed ashy waves. When had she ever let it get this length? No, it's more like when had it ever been healthy enough to _survive_ to this length. A proper diet has restored a bit of its original luster even, the occasional strand glinting silver in the light. It's not nearly as glossy as when she was a child, but she much prefers it muted like it is now.

In fact, the only part of her face that's remained unchanged is her eyes. The kind of pallid yellow that's beautiful in flowers, their color is much more unnerving when set into the irisis of a human being. They've always been deep-set, the life she's lived not having been kind to the tender flesh beneath them. Those bruised-black bags are only a small indication of just how exhausted the past decade has left her, not to mention just how little restful sleep she gets. The overall look gives her an eerie, unsettling appearance; more ghostly than human.

A pink tail suddenly covers those eyes, hiding Shrike's reflection from her. Whether it's because the little croc finds them as unnerving as Shrike does or she's just trying to get her attention, it's difficult to say.

"Yeah, yeah, spooky eyes. I know, they creep me out to-" The tail smacks her cheek as Phoebe growls, somehow conveying an annoyed tone.

"Okay! I'm setting you down now." Shrike tells her more than asks for permission, but she still feels a bit guilty as Phoebe's little claws dig into her shoulders. "C'mon Pheebs', I need to get cleaned up."

She eventually acquiesces, but not without a few minutes of Shrike hilariously trying to pry each clawed foot off only for them to immediately latch right back on. Shrike's finally able to appease the beast by reaching for the faucet, to which Phoebe hurriedly climbs off her with an excited crackle. The complaints stop as soon as the warm water seeps into her scales.

"The most spoiled baby in the world, that's you." Shrike's tone is positively saccharine, though. As if she could ever be truly mad at the little creature.

But that playful mood soon sours as she leans forward to better examine her bruises in the mirror. Wearing nothing but a pair of sleep shorts and a bralette, there's no hiding just how badly she'd had her ass handed to her. Bruises mottle her fair flesh from shoulder to hip, some of them already turning a sickly green as her body fights to heal itself. The ones on her forearms are the worst; they're bruised near black from blocking so many of Daz's blows.

The state of her knees is just as bad, if not worse. Even though the counter obscures their reflection, she knows from how fiercely they sting that the cleanup is going to suck.

"Let's get it over with then."

She pats Phoebe's head before climbing onto the counter alongside the sink, biting back groans as her body aches in protest. The bruises somehow look even worse now that they're closer to the harsh light above the mirror, but the condition of her knees puts them all to shame. All the recent movement has cracked the scabs and congealed blood on them wide open, and they've begun to bleed freely once more.

The sight of the red rivulets running down her shins brings a grimace to Shrike's face.

Her fingers begin to investigate the area, and she hisses from the sting as she moves the skin about to better examine the cuts. As painful as they are right now, though, they're not what's hurting her the most. Out of all the things Daz had left swollen and bruised, the worst of it is her _ego_.

She'd given it her all, even tapped into her haki-the one thing he doesn't have over her-only for him to flip it all in his favor with but a single, effortless clap. Even then, her own attacks had barely fazed him save for the hook she'd landed to his jaw. The whole ordeal had been nothing short of humiliating, and her face burns red hot with shame just remembering it.

Shrike knows she shouldn't be so hard on herself, given she's just barely a year out from almost starving to death. That doesn't change the fact that she has so much to prove. Much more than anyone else does, anyway. The crew had been more than vocal in voicing their doubts about her joining them. A half-starved, diseased waif being hired on as an assassin? Worse, the _Gilded Butcher_ dutifully working for the type of person she'd been regularly hunting? It was preposterous, madness even, and the crew was perfectly valid in thinking their captain had a death wish.

So after the events of today, she knows she has to work twice as hard to rebuild what little rapport she'd had with them. From the disastrous mission to Daz's humiliating beatdown, her reputation among the others must be all but ruined... but she'll keep fighting. She'll dust herself off and keep trying, just as she always has.

But first, she needs to take care of the _now_. One step at a time.

Phoebe watches curiously as Shrike reaches into the medicine cabinet framing the mirror, soon setting down some rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, and an assortment of bandages onto the counter around the sink. Shrike stretches her legs out along the tile, being careful not to bump into little Pheebs' as she gets to work.

Though the ship's doctor heavily discourages self-caring for any wounds among the crew, it'd just be plain rude to wake her at this hour. Luckily, the scrapes prove to be far less nasty than expected upon closer inspection. She _does_ spy a few splinters that need removing, but that asides, this'll be an easy job.

She gets to work, allowing her mind to drift off to other thoughts to better dissociate herself from the pain. Of course, being the glutton for punishment she is, it happens to settle right back onto the contents of her nightmare... and her frustratingly unwanted feelings.

' _He doesn't like you. Stop. You're just infatuated, it'll fade.'_

That's right. There's no way he could possibly like her.

Her personality is crass, rough around the edges in a way that makes his coarse sand look _soft_. She's uneducated and only just barely literate too, not having gone through any proper schooling. Hell, she doesn't even know exactly how old she is! Somewhere in her early thirties apparently. Not to mention, her looks are only slightly above average, and they're really the only thing half-way appealing about her.

Sure, she's worked hard to get to the physical state she's in now; so much so that every time she sees her reflection she has to fight the urge to pinch at herself to make sure it's real. Toned muscle now lines her limbs where only ghostly-pale skin had clung tightly to bone, and as much as they don't _feel_ like a part of her, they definitely are.

The one thing she's vain about is her lower half, where she's quite literally worked her old ass off to sculpt a well-toned ass and pair of thick thighs. All of the squats, the running, the climbing, and a little bit of genetic magic... all of the everything she's done to make sure she has the best physique possible to carry out her work has led to her being blessed with a great lower body. It's the _one_ thing she allows herself to be proud over, a product of nothing but hard work and physical exertion, just as capable as chasing down a fleeing target as kick their skull in.

But even then, it only makes what she lacks all the more apparent.

To say that her chest is a B-cup would be rather generous. She tries not to think about it too much, choosing to focus on the positives of her now healthy body instead. It's pointless to fret over, and it's not like she can do much about it anyway.

So sure, she's fit and healthy now, but that's about it. Her face gets red too easily, and blotchy, too. Not to mention the state and color of her eyes more than unnerve most people. Her hair is always a mess as the waves fight with each other over who can make the biggest tangle. Though it'd be hypocritical of someone like Croc' to care, gnarly scars mar her body from head to toe; namely the claw marks on her back and burns on her shoulder.

So with all that... yeah, there's no way Crocodile could ever be interested in a mangy stray like her. Not when he used to be with something like _Nico Robin._

Shrike's fingers pause in the middle of wiping at a shredded portion of her knee. The pain is all but nonexistent as her insecurities begin to tear her apart.

Nico. Robin.

 _Especially_ compared to her, there's not a doubt in Shrike's mind that Croc' feels anything for her. He and that woman have a long, _long_ history together that, while it ended poorly, was undoubtedly filled with trysts through the years.

What with her gorgeous raven locks and the most stunning blue eyes on the sea, the gentlest of laughs and a calm demeanor tempered by an iron wit, a body carved by the gods from purest marble that moves with indelible grace... Robin truly has Shrike outclassed in every single way. She even has a respectable bounty, and is plenty admired for her battle prowess and intelligence both. Her devil fruit can caress and break an opponent's spine at the same time; somehow both a delicate breeze and a biting gale, Robin is... perfect.

Shrike, meanwhile, is all raging storms and explosive lightning. She's about as gentle and refined as a punch to the nose, and has a graceless, unfeminine appearance to match. Compared to Robin, she's just a feral stray against a prized show-cat.

The tweezers clatter on the counter as they slip from her fingers, suddenly too overwhelmed by her own frustrations to keep hold of them. ' _Why do I even care about this? I don't_ like _him like that, remember!?'_

"STOP! Stop this, you're being-ARGH!"

Phoebe jumps and hisses as Shrike slams her fist onto the tile, and the little croc's fright immediately shatters the haze of anger clouding her mind.

"Fuck, fuck." Shrike grabs for the now annoyed reptile, quickly pulling her into her lap as she works to soothe its ire. "Sorry, Pheebs'. Just... Just being a little crazy tonight."

Phoebe's tail lazily stretches forward and whaps Shrike on the nose as an angry hiss crackles from her maw. Her displeasure is obvious.

"I know. I'm being stupid." Shrike lifts the beast aloft, holding her above her head with both hands shoved beneath her little arms. Those little red ruby eyes bore into Shrike's with a surprising amount of intelligence, more than from some people she's had the displeasure of interacting with.

"Say. You've known Croc' longer than I have." Shrike reclines back onto the counter, shivering a bit as her back touches the cool tile. Phoebe remains aloft in her arms all the while, a little pink moon obscuring the lightbulb sun. "He definitely doesn't like me, yeah? Totally not his type. I'm just losing my mind for no damn reaso-"

Phoebe starts to hiss impatiently, now trying to struggle out of Shrike's grip. The human rushes to set her back down, not exactly eager to have a twenty-five pound bag of scales falling on her already bruised face. The pink menace's claws clack as she's set down onto the counter, and she turns to give Shrike a pointedly expressive look for a reptile: abject disapproval.

"What? What did I do?!" Shrike tosses her hands in the air, feeling more exasperated by the second. "Is it because I scared you? I'm sorry!"

She reaches forward, beginning to scratch along the top of the pink croc's snout as another peace offering. Phoebe's eyes narrow, and she whips her nose out from beneath Shrike's fingers to turn up her snout.

"Are you... oh my god are you _pouting_ at me?!" Shrike's more amazed than angry. Even after a year of interacting with the little devil, her antics never cease to amaze her. She's quick to remind her newfound human friend just how clever she can be... and just how much attitude her tiny body can carry.

Shrike sighs, threading a palm up through her hairline in disbelief. "You're being ridiculous, you know that?"

Phoebe merely hisses, her tone somehow indignant. As if to make an even firmer point about her disapproval, the little croc marches about in a half-circle, now facing away from the human who'd dare mock her.

So utterly amused by Phoebe's temper, Shrike can't help but laugh. The beast doesn't take kindly to that. Her tail begins to swish and thrash about the table angrily, knocking over the medical supplies Shrike had set down.

"You really are something else... but I know what'll change your mind." Shrike leans forward to trail her fingers down Phoebe's spine, letting them dance over the scaley ridges leading down her tail. The ferocious little beast begins to open her maw, the most infuriated growl she can muster just starting to escape when-

"Would a _treat_ make you feel better?"

Phoebe's entire body goes rigid, and then she's whirling around all at once. Her eyes have lit up like there's little stars behind them, the ruby color shining as perfect as gemstones. She rushes forward in a scamper, and her claws struggle to find purchase on Shrike's chest as she tries to hiss excitedly into the human's face.

"Okay, okay!" Shrike struggles to pull the treat-frenzied creature off her as Phoebe's claws start hooking into her bralette... and to mention her skin. "Hey now, careful with those." She chides the pink menace with a stern tone, to which it responds immediately. It's a voice she only uses with her when being serious, usually during training or, in this case, discipline.

Phoebe relaxes to let her claws come loose, and she subsequently slides down Shrike's front until she comes to rest in her lap. Those rubies meet her just as eagerly as before, though a bit calmer now.

"Thank you, Pheebs'. For being a good girl, now you'll get _extra_ treats."

She practically screeches with excitement, her feet doing little tippy-tappies as she balances on top of Shrike's thighs.

"But first, girl, I really gotta' get these scapes cleaned up. Alright?"

It takes no more than a few more minutes for Shrike to wrap up, to which Phoebe watches patiently all the while. Once her knees are cleaned up and bandaged, Shrike gently slides herself off the counter, wary about her new wrappings staying in place. Luckily, they do, due in no small part to Shrike having plenty of experience playing doctor on herself back in her old life.

Except, now she has actual medical supplies, and not discarded bottles of cheap booze and scraps of soiled fabric.

"Alright, cutie, ready to get some nibbles?" She settles Phoebe onto her shoulders once more, biting back groans as the little reptile's body mass aggravates the bruises there. The delighted hiss that crackles out from that pink maw makes it all worthwhile, though.

Shrike clicks off the light and slinks out from the bathroom. Even after a full year, making any real noise during the a.m. makes her cringe, triggering that anxious fight or flight instinct of hers. Back _then_ , making too much noise would've tipped off her prey and almost certainly would've led to her death.

It's been a hard habit to shake, in any case. Even within the safe confines of her room.

Well, while this cabin _is_ "her room", it's also technically supposed to be the "women's quarters". Seeing as how the doctor has her own private room attached to the medbay, Shrike is the only one actively room here. Though she does enjoy having her own space, she also blames the segregated quarters as being another reason why she's struggled to build good relationships among the crew.

The others, all being men, have the pleasure and, or, the misfortune of rooming together; save for Crocodile who has his own private captain's quarters, of course. That left Shrike all on her lonesome in a room intended for multiple people... emphasis on alone.

She won't say she's _lonely_ , exactly; ship life means constantly being surrounded by other people. Still, there's something missing in her life that Shrike can't really describe. Not living directly with the others means that she's missed out on the bonding time that's pulled them fast together. She doesn't get their inside jokes, their life stories, their camaraderie... It's just another one of the many things that's kept her apart from them, made them think of her as an "other".

That, and her attitude...

There are times where she truly wishes she wasn't this way: so sharp and fiery and aggressive, almost compulsive in the way she pushes others away. Times where she wants to greet people with a soft smile and kind words rather than defensive hostility, but her prior years of solitude have hardened her exterior to such a point that she doesn't know if it'll ever be undone.

She could _try_ to play nice, but given the circumstances of her recruitment and her ornery reputation, Shrike has a feeling it wouldn't go over so well. Sure, it's been a year, but she's done little to give them any reason to actively _like_ her. She's dug this hole and left the shovel up top, no one to blame but herself. Now she's too afraid to ask someone to throw it down, lest they abuse her weakness and toss her a snake instead.

No way to dig herself out now. They've all made their opinions of her already, and she has more important things to worry about than what others think.

' _But not when that other is the captain, huh? Hypocrite.'_

Shrike grumbles at herself in frustration. Phoebe shifts at her muttering, stretching over to nibble at Shrike's cheek.

"Nothing, nothing." The human strokes along her scaley brow ridge. "Let's get some snacks."

As if on cue, a loud rumble sounds from Shrike's stomach, and a gutwrenching twinge of anxiety immediately constricts about her midsection. Nothing puts her on edge faster than being hungry, and her 'hangry' episodes have become legendary on the ship. While the crew mocks her for them, they know better than to come between her and her food.

After all, it's not exactly secret that she used to kill people just to steal a few loaves of bread.

"Looks like I'll be grabbing myself a treat, too. Eh?" She more hums to herself than to Phoebe, but a pink snout brushes against her nose at her words nonetheless.

Shrike walks over to her bed and turns around, bending backward such that her hitchhiker slides off and makes a soft landing on the mattress. She then drops to her haunches, careful not to upset the new bandages on her knees, and begins rooted around beneath the bed. Phoebe watches curiously all the while. Her claws cling to the edge of the frame so she can peek over.

There's a certain board Shrike's looking for, a loosened one that's against the wall beneath the headboard. Even in the dim light of the bedroom-the only light coming from the hallway as it creeps in from beneath the door-Shrike's done this enough that her fingers quickly brush against the twisted nail indicating her target.

"Aha~! Here we are!" She hooks her fingers beneath the lip of the board and gives it a familiar twist to the side. It comes free with a slight creak, revealing the prize within.

Shrike knows it makes a certain logical sense given her past, but that doesn't stop her from finding her food hoarding tendencies more than a little embarrassing. It's just in case, she tells herself. Just in case...

Like feeding a spoiled rotten pet crocodile.

She grabs a handful of her hoard, drawing them out from her secret cache to get a better look at what she has. Bags of chips, a few cookies, sleeves of crackers... nothing really jumps out at her as especially appetizing right now. Not even the jar of peanut butter grabs her attention, and that's her favorite.

Given the disinterested look on Phoebe's face from where she's sitting at the edge of the mattress, it's clear the little gator feels the same. As much as she doesn't feel like leaving the relative safety of her room, this calls for an emergency trip to the galley.

At the very least, Shrike knows a portion of her dinner _should_ be tucked away in the fridge for her. Given the nature of her assignments, the chef-a rather boisterous man named Axen-knows that she's like to occasionally be absent from meals. Hopefully, he figured that's what's happened this time too, and not that she'd completely slept through dinner while trying to avoid everyone...

Phoebe suddenly hisses at Shrike questionably as the human rises back to her feet empty-handed, an interrogative look in those clever little eyes.

Not eager to disappoint the little croc, Shrike extends her an invitation. "Care to join me on a trip to the kitchen?"

She dips her snout as if in a nod, the action drawing from a Shrike a bubbling laugh.

"You're smarter than Ezra, I swear." Shrike gives the baby a quick pat on the head. "I gotta get dressed first, then we can go. I'll be quick."

True to her word, she throws on a hoodie in a rush, not bothering to take her time lest she risk the pink menace's ire once more. No need to put on a shirt when she's just making a quick trip to the kitchen, especially at this hour when no one else _should_ be up. Her sleep shorts at least cover all the important bits, good enough for this little excursion, and at least she has underwear on underneath. If anyone _does_ see her... well, it's late and she's seen the men in worse, to be honest.

Once dressed a bit more modestly, she returns to the bed and relocates the hangry Phoebe to her shoulders once more.

"Ready?"

An impatiently excited hiss is all the answer she needs.

Shrike opens the door warily, worried about being spotted. Still embarrassed about everything that's happened today and still too exhausted from it to activate her Shroud, the last thing she wants right now is to run into anyone else. It's extremely late, and she doubts whether anyone is up prowling the decks like she is, but she's cautious all the same. She begins to head for the stairs down the hall at a tiptoe, seeing as how the kitchen is one deck up.

Given how gently the ship's listing, she can only assume the ship's still docked at port. The thought is more reassuring than she wants to admit. If Crocodile _does_ want to kill her, at least she knows that she still has an exit besides throwing herself overboard and taking her chances swimming back to shore. Or, if she's feeling practically dramatic, she could always just let herself down; give herself to the apathetic waters and let all her confused feelings and pointless infatuations be lost forever to the deep.

' _You're just as melodramatic as he is, god damn.'_

She shakes her head as a world-weary sigh pushes through her lips. Phoebe's tail tickles in her ear, as if she can sense the turmoil wreaking havoc in her human friend from the inside out.

"S'ok Pheebs'." She brushes the tail away with a warm smile, turning to the side to look meet those glimmering red eyes. "Just being a little dumb."

Shrike makes it to the foot of the stairs without incident, already dreading the creaking it'll make as she ascends. There's no other way topside though, and just sitting here filled with dread doesn't get her's _or_ Phoebe's tummies fed.

Luckily, just as how when she arrived at them, she climbs them with no issue. Though she's a little ashamed to admit how the anxiety has her heart thudding almost painfully in her chest. It seems that panic attack from earlier has undone much of the work she's put in over the year to seal those anxious tendencies away. Great.

She begins to creep down the hall, the similarities to her nightmare making her even more uneasy.

It's made all the worst as she's suddenly accosted by the faint sound of voices.

' _Who the hell is up at this hour?!'_

Despite the anxiety making her almost nauseous, her curiosity gets the better of her. Shrike silently pads down the hall as she does her best to ignore the coiling in her gut. The trail of the voices takes her right past the galley, where she'd expected them to eventually settle. No, it takes her further. To somewhere she's been to many, many times.

A room she's quite enjoyed finding herself in when invited. Now, the sight of it only fills her with dread.

The door to _his_ office.

Crocodile is back.

And from the tone of his voice, he sounds _angry_.


	6. A Little Birdie Heard

**Chapter Summary:** Crocodile is back, and from the tone of his voice, he sounds _angry_. Shrike knows it can only be because of her, and she's determined to make it right. She hears something far different than expected... and how can she ever go back?

 **Author Notes:** Welcome back! Reviews (good/bad/meh) always appreciated! I do really like knowing what you guys think and incorporate all feedback into my stories.

* * *

Shrike feels the color drain from her face. Her breath hitches, lungs stuttering from the anxiety running wild in her chest, coiling in her gut. She stands there frozen, only a few feet from the door- _his_ door-close enough to hear the voices within but not what they're saying.

It's one voice that has her so terrified. A voice that's reminding her just how precarious her position of 'still alive' is.

Crocodile's voice.

An _angry_ Crocodile's voice.

The man that'd been on the verge of killing her, his rage so palpable as to taste acidic on her tongue, is angry.

The man she's been wracking her heart and soul over, arguing with herself over this frustrating infatuation for, is angry.

Their mission for snacks has been all but forgotten. Even little Phoebe has stopped squirming about on Shrike's shoulders, now just as frozen as the human she's riding on is. They both know that an angry Crocodile is a dangerous one. Beloved pet or no, with a temper like his, even Phoebe does her best to avoid him in such a state.

This is bad.

Shrike knows she should just turn around. Leave before she attracts his attention, before he _kills_ her to make up for earlier. She should just go back to the galley, grab their food, and head back to her bunk to pretend everything is okay.

...She can't.

Something keeps her rooted in place.

The contents of her nightmare linger fresh in her mind, the situation being far too uncomfortably similar for her to _not_ notice. It's filled her with a dread that can only be described as existential, as if every fiber of her being has been reminded of her indisputable mortality. Her very spirit quivers under its oppressive weight.

She wants to run, and yet she just _can't_. All because of one thing: shame.

His anger has to be her fault. Everything that happened earlier was because she'd failed him, and to say that Shrike feels guilty about it would be an understatement. She cringes as his voice raises another bar, fiery and hot and venomous and so very angry. It's her fault and she knows it. It _has_ to be.

Her fault. Hers alone.

' _You promised yourself. You said you were going to fix this!_ ' Confusing feelings for him aside, she _did_ promise. She did.

Her fists tighten so hard that her palms sting, nails biting into the sensitive flesh. As soon as she recognized Hawken's shitty disguise for what it was, she'd resolved herself to own up for her mistakes and apologize. She told herself she'd do anything and everything to make this situation right.

Even if it leads to her getting killed, she has to try. On her honor, she _has_ to try.

So, Shrike is going to walk up to that door. She is going to knock on that door. She is going to apologize to the man behind that door. And then she is going to _fix_ this because Shrike is a woman that owns up to her mistakes, _goddammit_. If he kills her as soon as he sees her face, then that's that then. It won't be her problem to fix anymore.

She closes her eyes before steadying herself with a single, deep breath. The calming effect it has on her is slight, only just barely easing the thudding in her chest. It's better than nothing.

' _Go. Before you chicken out._ '

She nods, more at herself than for anyone else, and forces herself to move before what courage she's mustered peters out. Her footsteps make not a single sound. Even without her Shroud, she's near mastered the ability to move as only the shadows do.

With each step, the door draws ever closer, and the voices grow ever louder. The words forming them begin to take shape, though they're still too faint for her make out the details of the conversation at hand. It's only when she halts not a step away, hand poised to knock, that she finally takes note of the topic.

What she hears just about makes her soul leave her body.

Crocodile's tone is terse, almost at a growl. "Dote? I can assure you I do not _dote_ on the girl."

The sound of Daz's laughter follows shortly. "Please. She's not stupid, boss. You'd never give that level of attention to anyone who was."

Croc' _does_ growl this time. His voice conveys a level of frustration Shrike's never heard from him before: exasperation. "Your _point_ being?"

"I'm saying that Shrike's noticed the preferential treatment, boss. She's noticed the-" His voice then takes on a mocking tone, emphasizing the ridiculousness of what he's saying. "-the doting."

Shrike's heart near stops in her chest. She hears the words as solely pure sound, their meaning not at all making sense to her mind as it desperately struggles to process them.

' _Doting. On... me. They're... They're talking about me... Croc'... dotes... No he doe-no-yes he does_.' Images of lovingly wrapped parcels flit about her head. Gifts found in her quarters, cleverly disguised as more tools for work; new clothing folded on her bed, ' _work uniform_ ' the note had said. The garments had been far too nice for just 'work'.

It's something he does only for her. None of the others in the crew receives such material attention. No one.

' _He... He does. He dotes. On. Me._ '

There's a sudden thwump that makes Shrike jump, probably Croc's fist slamming down on his desk. She's too enraptured by what she's hearing to have her usual masterful control over her body. The noise wouldn't have elicited such a reaction from her otherwise.

Phoebe hisses slightly at Shrike's abrupt movement, and her tail lightly smacks against the human's cheek in what must be admonishment.

But it's in vain.

Shrike's thoughts are far too overloaded to process the little reptile's warning. Nothing physical matters anymore. The only things that do are the words flitting into her ear from the conversation she definitely shouldn't be hearing. Her head screams no, 'stop listening, stop this at once'. She needs to turn around and leave, pretend like this never happened and that she heard nothing.

Her heart says otherwise. It throws itself against her sternum wildly, running out of control with what it's been hungering for all along: validation.

She doesn't want this. She doesn't want these _feelings_ , doesn't want to feel excited and hopeful that maybe he feels the same way. The logical side of her wants this all to stop, knows it'll just get her broken or killed and definitely tossed aside like refuse just as everyone else has before.

Yet she just _can't-stop-listening_.

Croc' and Daz keep talking, their conversation a bewitching siren song leading her to her demise.

"It is _not_ doting! I am only interested in-"

Daz cuts him off with another bark of laughter. "Oh, right. Interested. That's putting it a bit lightly."

The noise Croc' makes is of annoyance, tinged with equal parts frustration and disgust. " _No_ , I've just invested a lot of time and resources in ensuring she's capable of performing her duties."

"Emphasis on the _time_. The rest of the crew struggles to find a single minute just to pass you information. Shrike gets a whole hour every other day just so you can hear her talk."

More memories. Images of him inviting her to his office, this very same one. It's early in the day and sun strikes across both their features warmly. A mug of coffee sits in her hands as he asks how she's acclimating, and the more he talks the more his eyes soften, his scar begins to wrinkle as the barest ghost of a smile tugs at his lips...

Only now does she notice that smile. Why does it make her heart race? Why!?

Phoebe's tail thwaps at her cheek more insistently this time. Shrike waves it away in annoyance, not really registering the little creature trying to get her attention.

"And what about the mission swap this morning?" Daz continues, his voice also growing impatient. The light thudding underneath his words indicates he's pacing about the cabin. "That last minute intel told you the warehouse mission was way more dangerous than planned, so you swapped us at the last minute! Worried it would be too difficult for her? That she'd go and get herself k-"

"That is enough!" There's a sudden screech of wood on wood, the sound of a chair being abruptly pushed back. Another loud thud sounds as Crocodile slams his fist down onto the desk once more. "You're lucky you're irreplaceable."

"Yeah? Well, it seems I'm not the only one you find that way." Daz, as always, remains ever fearless of his captain. "You would've let her go on that mission as planned, otherwise. Bringing the _Butcher_ along to a place like that? As much as you're infatuated with her, you knew it had to be a bad idea."

The sound of Crocodile snarling raises every hair on the back of Shrike's neck. Never has she heard him filled with such ire. "Infatuation?! Is it so insidious to want my investment to reach its full potential?"

Daz huffs, his impatience clear in the rush of air. "Do you even believe what you're saying? You're usually better at lying than this."

A beat drops.

Then another.

Several full seconds pass, each heavier than the next. The sound of Shrike's heart thudding in her chest sounds as loud as war drums. She's unconsciously glad the air has frozen in her lungs, too afraid the slight sound of her breathing would shatter the delicate silence.

Little claws begin to release their death grip on the bruised flesh of her shoulders, patience all but run out.

Shrike doesn't notice.

The silence is finally broken by the rush of another sigh, one laden with exhaustion. "Why are you so interested in her, anyway? She's not your type."

There are a few more beats before Crocodile answers him. His voice is low, more of a mutter than anything else. "As if someone needs to be a 'type' to attract my attention."

"Ah! So you finally admit it then? You _are_ interested in her?"

Crocodile's silence is the only answer she needs.

Shrike's mind is short-circuiting, too much overwhelming it at once. The overflow goes straight to her heart instead, where a just barely conscious part of her bristles in fury at herself for feeling this way. ' _Don't lose yourself. This isn't what it seems like. It's not what you really want_.'

Never has she felt more at war with herself. Never has she felt more like two entirely separate people instead of one; split into a perfect dichotomy of heart versus mind that has her tearing herself apart at the seams.

Only a wooden door separates her from the very real conversation going on before her. Talk of how the man she maybe kind of likes seems to maybe kind of like her back.

"If you do want what's best for her... then end this now. You aren't it."

Shrike would gasp if she weren't so utterly petrified. To hear Daz-the single most outspoken member of the crew upon her joining, the man who'd so heatedly left her beaten black and blue earlier-speak for her out of _concern_?

She doesn't understand. She _can't_. A maelstrom of confusing, conflicting feelings swirl in her chest: anger, relief, frustration, joy, indignation, gratitude…?

"You best speak plainly before I interpret your insinuations... _poorly_." Crocodile's response drips like honeyed venom, the words burning down Shrike's spine as they hit her ears.

"Fine. I'm saying th-"

* _THWUMP_ *

A twenty-five pound of scales thuds to the floor.

Right at Shrike's feet.

The conversation in the room stops immediately.

Her heart rockets up into her throat, the noise constricting her lungs so tightly she can't help but gasp.

It's her nightmare all over again. That fateful night when this all began.

The door opens on its own. A flash of pink scampers into the room, and Shrike gives chase before she realizes what she's doing. The panic drives her forward too quickly for reason to catch up.

"PHOEBE NO! BA-"

Two pairs of eyes meet hers, and each bears two completely different, entirely opposite expressions. One's in elation, almost smugly so. The other... panicked horror.

Shrike stops dead in her tracks as soon as she realizes what's happened, still bent at the waist, hands outstretched in some desperate attempt to grab for that wicked little reptile. The pink menace continues scampering forward, dissatisfied hisses falling from her maw all the while until she disappears behind the desk.

The tension in the air is palpable, so thick as to be paste on the back of Shrike's tongue.

It's Crocodile that reacts first. The expression on his face begins to shift; horror then disbelief, before finally settling on absolute _rage_.

It makes her want to die right there on her feet.

 _Worse_ , it has her talking.

"I… I was just... Phoeb-Phobos got away from me and-and I was just trying to-"

The words die in her throat as Crocodile suddenly throws his arm outward in her direction. It dissolves into sand instantaneously, whizzing in a stream right towards her.

His snarl cuts right through Shrike's sternum down to her heart. She flinches before she can stop herself, throwing her arms up over her face in some futile attempt of protection.

There isn't even enough time for her life to flash in her eyes. It's just too sudden. With but a single little reptile's wanton bravado, Shrike is dead just like that. All those frustrations and feelings seem so trite now, so meaningless...

But it doesn't come. Just like before, the strike that would've, _should've_ , been her doom does not come.

Instead, she's moving forward. Not of her own volition, but from being roughly dragged forward by a tendril of sand about her torso. It pulls her so quickly that her feet leave the ground, and her already irritated stomach lurches as the world around her does.

The sand releases from her midsection and she drops the few inches to land on her feet before his desk. Her shaking knees barely keep her upright as they tremble in a mix of pain and anxiety. All she can do is stare upward wide-eyed into the infuriated face of her captain.

The man she's foolishly developed feelings for.

"How much did you hear?! Answer, Agent!" He barks the question. Those dark eyes bore into her worse than any blade.

"I-I…" Her mouth flaps uselessly. How can she even answer? That she heard every bit of how much he's just as infatuated with her as she is with him?

Her usual sharp wit and reflexes are nowhere to be found. She's the terrified waitress all over again, standing there helplessly before the bar waiting for _it_ to happen. Her years of experience, years of hardening her exterior, have fallen from her as if she's been stripped bare.

Crocodile huffs impatiently. His eyes narrow to knife files. "You'd best answer. _Now_."

It's a tone of voice that's sent her running before, running and hiding before she's found and made to hurt. She's never heard it from him before, yet she fears it all the same.

Shrike instinctively takes a step backwards, trying to flee the pain her past experiences say is coming.

Her knee buckles right as she lifts her leg, and she begins to fall.

His sand reforms into a hand poised right above her head. She can't help but flinch, so utterly conditioned to correlate that image with pain. The logical side in her still fighting to be heard roars as she does so.

' _Unbelievable, you coward!'_

It's all but overshadowed by the fear and anxieties of her past eating her from the inside out. Her eyes slam shut, and an utterly _pitiful_ whimper escapes her.

This time he really is going to kill her. She's shown she can't be trusted, eavesdropping on his candid conversations. And her failures from earlier? What good is an incompetent, untrustworthy agen-

She's stopped falling.

Something's caught her by the small of her back. A wide, flat pressure caresses across her spine. It's the type of uniform pressure that can only be from one thing and one thing only: a hand.

Shrike's eyes shoot open wide, pupils dilating as she stares up into his own which are now far, _far_ closer than they'd been but a second ago. A blaze of heat sparks through her chest so searingly hot that it creeps upwards to singe her cheeks.

Crocodile stands slightly bent over her, his hand holding her steady across her back. He'd sped over the desk and rushed to catch her as soon as she'd started to stumble backward. The anger had drained from his features sometime during it all. Now, he only looks down at her with undisguised concern.

"Careful, now." His voice has switched from honeyed venom to just pure, honeyed syrup. It's so rich and thick and low and charming that she can physically _feel_ it dripping into her belly.

Shrike barely hears the words through the blood rushing in her ears, yet they finally cut through the flustered haze keeping her paralyzed. Her entire body shudders as it suddenly remembers she has to breathe.

"Haaaaah" A noise of genuine surprise bursts from her throat. Her entire body feels heated, a mixture of flustered embarrassment and panicky excitement swirl through her in a way that quickly has her trembling. The butterflies fly about her stomach so aggressively they've begun to invade her limbs, making them shake in jittery anticipation.

She'd swear her heart's beating loud enough for the whole damn ship to hear if she were lucid enough for such a thought.

Each and every neuron focuses on that hand at the small of her back, so much larger than hers and so impossibly warm. Positioned as far down as it is, it's somehow swept every coherent thought from her mind. Nothing remains but a panicked maelstrom of raw _feeling_. Even if she could manage a single thought in its storm, it'd only drown out the words with a roar.

...She doesn't like this. She doesn't like feeling this helpless. She doesn't like being lost under the tide of her own rampant feelings.

This has to stop.

Something in him must've agreed.

His expression abruptly hardens, that trademark displeased look of his returning to its rightful place on his face. He takes a step back, pulling her to a more stable position on her feet as he does so. As much as she'd wanted it to end, the sudden absence of his hand feels so empty as to feel like she's never been touched there ever at all.

"Have more care, Agent." His eyes lower to her legs, of which she's now painfully aware of just how short her shorts are. Yet, his gaze lingers not on her exposed thighs, but on the wrappings about her knees. "Report to Ellia in the morning for-" He pauses, before sighing the word with a distinct tone of impatience. "- _proper_ treatment."

All Shrike can do is stand there, spine stiffened and jaw clenched in the hopes nothing stupid pours out of her mouth. Her sharp tongue has gotten her in more trouble before than she cares to admit.

Croc's gaze shifts back up to her wide-eyed stare, the yellows of her irises near overtaking her pupils. That predatory focus lingers there for but a few moments, before he then turns it over toward her left.

"Daz, you are dismissed for the evening. Next time, think before discussing matters pertaining to someone who can turn _invisible._ "

Shrike near jumps out of her skin, having completely forgotten the vice-captain is even present. Her face heats even more, like someone's lit a flame beneath her cheeks. The mortification of it all threatens to bring tears to her eyes, and she can already feel the indignant rage bubbling inside because of it.

' _Don't you dare fucking cry. Don't. Do. It.'_

At the very least, it serves to sober her up a bit.

Daz looks her over before turning to look back at his captain. Half his face obscured from her as it is, Shrike can _feel_ the distrust in his expression; a look of pure suspicion.

Without a word, he turns and makes a slow, lazy exit. It's not until he's halfway through the doorway that he finally stops. He turns mid-step, now sporting a more neutral expression, but the words from him are as ominous as the look he'd shot Crocodile just moments before: "Mind your words. Remember what I said."

And then, he's gone.

Leaving just her.

And just him.

Alone.

Together.

The one person she somehow both desperately wants to have and frantically wants to get away from more than anything else in the world.

The latter is winning. Her instincts scream at her as they always do in a fight she knows she can't hope to win: run.

"I-I really should go!" Shrike laughs nervously, shifting her gaze to the side as she points a thumb over her shoulder at the door. Her heart's thudding so hard it might give out at any second.

"I heard nothing, okay? Not a word! I'm just… going to go now… " She turns stiffly, eager to make her escape. Not a single toe has lifted from the floor before he puts all that to a halt.

"You have not been excused, Ms. Shrike." His voice has taken on an unexpected level of exhaustion, like he hasn't slept in not days but _weeks_.

"S-sorry!" She manages to stammer out, hoping beyond hope he can't see the inner turmoil wreaking havoc inside he. She turns slowly, _too_ slowly, as prey does under the watchful gaze of a predator.

Only now that they're alone, is she able to get a better look at him.

Just as he sounds, Crocodile looks _tired_. So tired as to almost look defeated. His fingers knead at his brow as his features furrow in what looks to be a mixture of exhaustion and annoyance. He's returned to behind his desk, and its usual meticulously organized surface is now haphazardly covered in all manner of documents. The man himself looks just as muddled, like he's unraveling at the seams.

As alien as the appearance looks on him, Shrike can't help but swoon at it. Several strands of his normally slicked-back hair have come loose, falling forward to frame his face that's alluring for a reason she can't really describe.

' _Natural. Raw. Handsome.'_

His vest and coat lie thrown over the back of his chair, and even the top few buttons of his olive green shirt have been undone. The events of the day have left it slightly ruffled and wrinkled, the same as his pants. Those tight-fitting black slacks sit a bit lower on his hips than usual, something she notices with a fresh blaze of red to her face. That, combined with the casual state of his hair, has her heated all over again.

' _Stop! Stop stop stop! You're making this worse!'_

He suddenly lets loose a long, drawn-out sigh. The tension drops from his shoulder as he straightens up and finally turns his gaze back her way

It's… not at all what Shrike expected.

That look drains her of all color. It chills her right to the bone, erasing all the warmth that'd seeped into her from his hand just minutes before.

His eyes have drained of all previous emotion, now sporting the cool and calculated expression she's grown used to seeing in them. A look that's usually aimed at _others_. Never once has it ever been shot her way. Not even on the night they met.

He abruptly gestures at the chair on the forward side of the desk, one she's sat in tens of times for those lovely coffee chats she's come to adore so much.

"Sit. We need to discuss your…" His eyes slip closed, nostrils flaring as he takes a pointedly taken breath. "...insubordination, from this afternoon."

He says it coolly. _Too_ coolly.

It's the way he talks to those he meets with. The ones he then sends you after.

It's the voice he uses when talking to his _enemies_.

Shrike stands frozen, now in confusion rather than fear. She doesn't even register his request. No, _order_.

Just moments before, he and Daz were bickering on his less than professional interest in her, and now he's treating her with just as much cool hostility as he did D'Lore earlier this afternoon. He's put on one of his many masks to deal with her just as he does the same to his enemies, as if she's nothing more than another body in his way.

It's one thing for him to attempt to sigh it all away, to take a moment and bury his pesky feelings underneath that callous persona of his, but for him to expect her to do the same?

It fills her with a myriad of emotions that has her chest aching. Sadness? Disappointment? Fear?

No.

 _Anger_.

This is unacceptable.

And Shrike is acceptably _pissed_.

"You… You expect me to just… to just ignore-"

He cuts her off with a tone sharp enough to cut the very air. "I _expect_ you to sit as you were ordered to, Agent."

He trains his dark eyes on her, daring her to say more. Such a look would normally cow anyone else into submission; force them to bend the knee and offer their necks in deference. Unfortunately for him, Shrike's always one to rise to a challenge. _Especially if it's from him_.

For but a moment, the Butcher had forgotten who she was.

Surely as the sun rises, the rage brings it all back.

"Take your order and stuff it!" Her fists ball at her side, shoulders tense as she defiantly meets his piercing glare with her own. "You will _not_ treat me like this! Like I'm another one of your enemies! Just because you-"

"Do you really think it wise to defy my orders yet again?" His glare turns even more predatory, not at all pleased by her continued disobedience. The tone of his voice has taken on a downright venomous timbre.

All it does is piss her off even further. The fury burning in her heart has taken all that prior fear and turned it into kindling for the furnace.

"Or what?! You'll kill me? Oh, we saw how well that went earlier!" She snaps right back at him, beginning to pace about the middle of the room.

"You'd best not test my patience, _Agent_."

The way he's braced, near motionless on the other side of the desk, reminds her of beloved Deimos poised beneath the water, ready to strike. Lesser men and women would've thrown themselves at his feet just by the sight of his glower alone.

But Shrike is no 'lesser' woman.

She will _not_ be cowed into submission by him, not after all she's heard tonight. She's far too incensed by his callous demeanor to dutifully kneel in obeisance at this point. Especially now that she knows he's toothless towards her.

"Just because you're too much of a coward to talk about anything even remotely adult like _feelings_ doesn't mea-UFHH"

She doesn't get to finish her tirade.

Just as she passes before the chair he'd gestured at earlier, he flies at her from over his desk. He disintegrates and reforms with brutal speed, his hand clamping down roughly over her mouth as he pushes her backward. She's forced downward into the chair so hard her rear stings from the force of impact.

The shock of it all keeps her from immediately fighting back, blindsided so severely as to just sit there and stare upward wide-eyed.

Crocodile snarls, the sound of it suffused with brutally raw frustration and annoyance. The look he glares down at her contains far too many conflicting emotions for her to classify.

"For _once_ in your life will you just _listen_?!" Crocodile practically shouts at her in a tone born of nigh desperate exasperation. "I ask you to shut your damn mouth and sit down but you're just so damn _stubborn_ I have to physically do it FOR YOU."

Shrike's too shocked to respond. She's never seen him like this before. So… _emotional_. Even if she _could_ form a coherent thought, his hand still covers her mouth.

She stares at him, it's all she _can_ do. Her surprised eyes are still opened wide, yellow irises expanded such that her pupils look like pinheads. A few moments pass with just them looking at each other.

When he finally moves, he does so with a huff. He drops his shoulders, staying careful to keep her mouth firmly covered. "You are single-handedly the most exhausting, infuriated woman I've ever met."

His expression then shifts to a stern expression. An owner scolding their misbehaving pet.

"I am going to remove my hand, and you are going to stay silent." His words are much more even than before, leaving no room for misinterpretations or objections. "You are going to listen to me like a good girl, and only, _only_ , speak to answer my questions."

It's funny, how instantaneously the shock melts away from her. Under the blaze of the raging inferno that's ignited inside her, there's simply no room for it. She almost begins to tremble from the might of it, so utterly enraged that her vision has gone stark red.

"Now. Do you underst-"

She bites his hand. _Hard._

Crocodile flinches mid-sentence, though otherwise remains motionless as his words abruptly fall silent. The faint tang of iron on the tip of her tongue suggests she's broken the skin, yet the cool stare he fixes her with suggests he's rather unfazed.

She'd expected another incensed outburst, and this dead silence is unnerving in its absence.

A few seconds pass, little communicated between her stubborn glare and his otherwise impassive stare.

It's only when she begins to clamp down harder does he release a sigh, his shoulders slumping seemingly in defeat.

And then the coarse grit of sand fills Shrike's mouth.

She coughs and sputters, immediately falling out of the chair to crash onto her knees. A strangled shout crawls from her throat as the impact irritates her freshly bound injuries, though she barely cares about that right now.

Her hands desperately palm at the sand coating her tongue instead. Wet globs of the stuff fall from her mouth as she frantically tries to spit it out. Grains cling beneath her tongue and all about her gums, her panicked rubbing only making it stick in worse.

Crocodile has long since walked away at this point, though it's not like she's noticed. How can she, when everything about her existence has devolved to _sand in her mouth_.

She's _pissed_ , unbelievably so. At both him _and_ herself. He'd asked one thing of her and she couldn't even do _that_ much. Just like she couldn't help along on the mission earlier… just like she wasn't strong enough to go on the mission he'd apparently planned for her to originally go on… just like she'll never be good enough for his expectations...

' _Weak! Bratty! Arrogant! You're pathetic! No matter how hard you tr-"_

The sound of approaching footfalls quickly attracts Shrike's attention. She growls from where she's still hunched on her knees, hoping he doesn't notice the frustrated tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She's had enough humiliation for one day. Killing her now would be a mercy.

She looks upward, fully expecting to find his hook poised to gut her for her insolence only to find...

A glass of water.

Crocodile holds it before he, leaning down slightly to keep it level with her face.

"Here."

His eyes no longer convey that sense of angry desperation he'd flashed at her earlier. Now, they just look tired.

Shrike's gaze flits between the glass and his face, jaw slack in confused relief. Only after a few seconds does she gratefully take the glass, and it's only then that the raised red lines she'd bitten into his palm become visible. The sight causes what's left of her anger to melt right away, instead leaving her with just a cold feeling of shame.

Crocodile steps backward to give her space. Leaning back against his desk, his hand comes up to pinch at the bridge of his nose once more.

"I don't even know why I bother." He mutters the words. Shrike's not sure if she's meant to hear them, but they cut all the same.

She looks to the floor as she swishes the water about her mouth, too embarrassed now to even look at him. For as much she'd been quick to label him the "manchild" earlier, her own antics tonight have been no better. To have invested so much time and resources into her, a sick a starving no-name street urchin who just happened to be good at killing people, and for her to disrespect and fight him at every turn? She'd thrown all that goodwill back in his face.

It's only now, utterly humiliated and ashamed of herself on her bloodied knees, does she suddenly remember why she'd approached his door in the first place. She'd come to apologize.

Shrike knows now that it's time to grow up.

She pulls herself to her feet, biting deep into her lip to avoid any pained noises from escaping. Only, that hurts just as much, the plush flesh still bruised from the way her chin hit the floor earlier.

"I'm sorry, Captain." She starts, already cursing herself as her words come out wobbly. "You were expecting… a lot… from me earlier and… I couldn't deliver. Your expectations in me were ill-placed, and that's entirely my fault."

Crocodile lowers his hand from where he's been kneading his brow, revealing eyes more tired and soft than she'd ever seen from him. The usual piercing glower is nowhere to be seen. He crosses his arms before his chest, continuing to lean against his desk. Shrike takes the curious glimmer in his expression as a sign to continue.

"I didn't recognize the D'Lore heir. It was only after you… left… that I realized it was him. Still, I stood between you because I didn't… trust… your judgment."

Her heart begins to race again, tears gathering in number at the corners of her eyes. She doesn't dare reach up to wipe them away lest she draw his attention to them. Crying even once on a normal day was one in a million for her. Today was most certainly not a normal day.

"I said a lot of things I really shouldn't have." Her face heats up as she remembers just how colorful the words she'd used were. "It was extremely disrespectful and I apologize. I don't expect your forgiveness. That's more than I deserve."

He continues to just look at her, head slightly tilted to the side. Not a word comes out of his mouth. His scar crinkles beneath the corners of his eyes, locked as they are in that unwavering gaze.

"And… What happened just now… What you were talking about…" Shrike begins to fidget, her fingers picking at her cuticles and nails. The words sit at the tip of her tongue, too scared to take flight. It's only when she takes a deep breath-what feels to be the deepest she's ever taken-that they begin to loosen. "I-"

"You heard everything."

Everything begins to unravel. She sees it coming, _feels_ it coming, and is utterly powerless to stop it.

"I did! I heard everything, okay? I just couldn't stop listening!" The words explode from her, and they just don't stop.

"Once I realized what you were talking about I just couldn't stop! I wanted to, I really did. I wanted to turn right back around and go to my room but _PHOEBE_ -" She stops mid-pace, throwing her arm to point at the smug-looking reptile now sitting proudly on the desk. "-just _had_ to rush in and make all this happen!"

It won't stop.

"And I just-just! I should've just left! I know I should've!"

She _can't_ stop.

It's too late. It all comes tumbling out.

"Now I know you kind of like me and this is the worst because _I_ kind of like _you_ too but we both don't want this and how the hell can we just go back and pretend like this never happened-"

She wills herself to shut up, to stop the tide of words falling from her mouth but she just _can't_. ' _Stop it! Stop stop stop stop stop!'_

"And I just got so excited because how could someone like me attract someone like you when I'm just so defensive and stubborn and stupid and bitchy an-" A flood of insecurities and doubts fill the air as she runs her mouth, utterly powerless to stop them.

Her face grows hotter and hotter all the while. She wishes he _had_ killed her earlier, if only to spare her the humiliation of this impulsive, unstoppable cathartic rant her body is unwittingly putting her though.

He seems to have had enough of it, too, as after a near solid minute of her mumbling, he begins to uncross his arms. It takes only a few steps for him to cross the gap between them, bringing him to a distance that is once again _much_ too close for her to focus on anything else. The steam of words falling from her lips slows to a trickle, yet they only fully stop when he suddenly makes them.

His finger presses against her lips to shush her, much more gentle than his palm earlier, yet just as insistent. To be touched so… so… tenderly…? Twice in a single night? It's another touch that has both halves of her screaming internally: one ' _yes!'_ and the other very much ' _no!'_.

Silence fills the cabin as she doesn't dare move her lips against that persistent digit. All she can do is stare at him, once fair cheeks now aflame with nervous emotion, both excited and appalled all at once. Her pallid gold eyes meet his darker ones, so dark as to be black, their true color hidden in the low light of the cabin.

He sighs suddenly, and slightly shakes his head side to side with half-lidded eyes.

"You know, Shrike. Half the time I don't know whether you make me want to kill you, or make me want to kiss you."

The world simultaneously ends and starts, everything a blessed contradiction of horror and elation.

If Shrike thought her cheeks had felt hot before, she has no words to describe the level of heat welling up beneath them now. It's nigh unbearable, a veritable inferno consuming her from the inside out until not even thoughts remain.

The look on his face only makes it all worse, so impossibly warm and utterly alien on him because of it. A faint trace of a smile, eyes just barely crinkled, eyebrows knitted together… it sends agonizingly sweet tingles down her spine and only stokes the storm of butterflies raging in her gut.

Out of it all, only one thought manages to finally surface.

' _Fuck.'_

Crocodile puffs amusedly, and slowly, gently removes the finger sealing her lips. His hand instead moves to lightly cup her cheek.

So tortuous, so rapturous... The sensation almost makes her want to die. Whether it's because she's horrified and wants it all to end, or because her life has peaked in this moment, she cannot possibly answer.

"Is this all it took to quiet you? I never took you as a romantic, _Shrike._ "

Her breath hitches as she suddenly remembers to breathe. "O-oh."

The rush of air snaps her out of her dazed panic like a flick to the nose. She blinks, so much more conscious of him holding her face.

Except now… now she thinks she likes it. Between her two warring halves, one has since clearly won.

She begins to stammer, her mouth once again taking over with the very first thing that comes to her mind

"So, uh… Do… Do I get a choice? Between the killing me and the… the…"

She can't even finish, words drying up as quickly as they'd come. Her eyes flit to the side, unable to bear his look any longer lest she combusts from the inside.

' _What are you even saying!? You are_ so _lame!_ '

Shrike would've laughed had it been happening to anyone else. Unfortunately, it's not, and she's left standing shock-still in horrific awe of how incredibly cringe-inducing the line had been. The heat beneath her cheeks rages hot, her own personal purgatory burning wild off the mortification of her terrible awkwardness.

A few beats pass in total silence, save for the rush of blood in her ears and her heart hammering in her chest.

Her fight or flight instinct abruptly activates, shifting into overdrive with a roar telling her one thing and one thing only: ' _RUN.'_ She needs to go, _now_ ; run far and fast away from this room before she dies of embarrassment right here and now.

Just as she's about to make a dash for it, throw herself overboard in some morbid act of melodrama, he makes his move first.

His hand shifts, quickly shifting to tilt her face upward to point at his.

She has no time to react as his lips crash into hers.

' _!?_ _!?'_

Her eyes remain open at first, a mix of panic and shock keeping them wide as her heart hammers in her chest at a worrying speed.

This is happening. This is _really_ happening. This is happening _goddammit_ and she's way too overwhelmed to just sit back and enjoy it like she wants to.

' _CALM, DAMMIT!'_

Her eyes flutter shut as she forces herself to relax, to feel and just let her instincts take over. It's… it's everything she wanted it to be and more. Passionate and raw. Rough yet refined. Tender but insistent. He goes no further, keeping it at their lips, yet she tastes the faint sweetness of his cigars all the same.

She can't even remember the last time she'd been kissed. Pleasantly, that is. None of them had ever been as incredible as this, sent her heart rocketing into space and stolen the air from her lungs. How such a simple thing could convey so many ideas and feelings at once, it's swept her like a hurricane and it's all she can do to just stay standing.

And then, it's over.

He pulls back, eyes slowly opening to shoot her that characteristic smug grin of his… though warmer than it usually is.

"A choice? Not when you make a face as cute as that, you don't."

Shrike can only giggle.


	7. Parallel Lines

**Chapter Summary:** Shrike's heart is soaring, utterly charmed as the man she's been pining over validates all her confusing feelings with a searingly passionate kiss. She's just not so sure if she can keep up...

 **Author Notes:** All I can say is, enjoy.

* * *

In all her years, decades even, of skulking down alleyways, of stalking snow-covered streets…

Of sneaking into people's homes, stealing whatever from breadcrumbs to lives…

Of watching happy families from afar… Of spying on those counting the money they're too busy hoarding _to have_ a happy family…

In all her years of being the _Butcher_ , Shrike has become exceptionally skilled at reading people. To the emotions plain on their face to their more hidden desires, only but a handful of times has she ever encountered a person whose character she hasn't been able to expose to light.

Yet, in this moment, as she stares up into that smug, almost dreamy grin on his face, his eyes glinting with a warmth so very foreign to their depths, Shrike is completely and utterly at a loss.

It's impossible, trying to get a read on the man before her. What with his devilishly charming smile and nigh-smoldering expression, and the way her lips still tingle from the heated kiss he'd pressed upon them, she's finding it hard to just breathe, let alone _think_.

All the doubt that'd plagued her, _tormented_ her mind earlier has conspicuously vanished. It's all but been wiped away in the smothering heat of a single, damning kiss.

Only an empty void's been left behind. A pit desperately _yearning_ for more.

Just one kiss wasn't enough.

She needs more.

Standing on tiptoe, Shrike reaches up to grab Crocodile by the collar before wrenching him down closer to her height. She uses the added leverage to kiss him back, trying futilely to return as much ardor as he himself delivered but a moment before.

It comes out clumsy. Her kiss is fumbling and haphazard compared to his initiative. It's born both of being out of practice and being semi-inexperienced to being with. She's _been_ kissed. Definitely more than she cares to think of, but as far as taking a more active role… she may as well be a virgin.

It more than shows. What with the way she clumsily tries to kiss him back, it's obvious to both of them just how out of her element she is.

He'd made it feel so natural, practically effortless for him. His kiss had been _passionate_ , practically searing in its fervor. More important, it was _wanted_. If only she could capture even half the expertise he'd shown. Anything to save herself from floundering like some kissless teenager...

The difference in size between them doesn't help, either. Even on tiptoe, her fists remain clenched tightly about his collar, forcing him to stay still. It's a height that's uncomfortable for both of them, somehow both too low and too high all at once. Just as she struggles to keep from falling forward into his chest, he, too, maintains a precarious balance of his own.

He can't fault her for her enthusiasm, at least. That, she has in plenty.

Shrike feels his lips break into a grin against hers, clearly amused by her fumbling attempt to return a kiss as skillfully as the one he'd given her. It brings a fresh blaze of embarrassment to her cheeks. From how heated they feel, she just knows they're singed far more than a little rosy at this point.

Her hands quickly untangle from his shirt, eager to pull away before she embarrasses herself any further. He must already think so little of her admittedly amateur skills. She only hopes he realizes she's never been more out of her element in her life. As many times as she's foolishly pined for such a girlish romance-anything to distract her from the biting cold and loneliness-never once has she ever dreamed it could actually happen to someone like her.

Now that it's here, she feels as if she'll drown at any second. It's all she can do to just keep herself above the surface.

A low chuckle from before her grabs her attention.

She looks upward into Crocodile's face, and the pitying, amused grin she finds waiting for her just about kills her on the spot. It seems she's impressed him in the worst way possible.

"That bad, huh?" The words come out under her breath, an airy mumble. Even just the breathlessness of her voice is enough to bring another flash of heat to her face.

A husky laugh rumbles from him, and she hastily averts her eyes as the mortification washes over her. They roam about the room: the floor, the desk, the pink reptile lazily watching _from_ the desk… anywhere but him knowing he'll just be wearing that stupid, smug, admittedly handsome grin of his...

Her arm crosses over her midsection, clamping onto the other as her fingers anxiously pick at a scarred ridge there. "I…"

Shrike doesn't really know what to say, and her words trail off nervously. It makes her want to smack herself, desperately wishing that just a single mote of the courage that drove her to confront him in the first place still burned in her chest.

Normally, she's no stranger to the art of flirting. She's used it plenty of times to sneak her way into places or convince someone to look the other way. Maybe even used it to catch some of her more _lecherous_ prey off guard...

But that was _play_ flirting.

This is the real thing.

Apparently, she's more than just a little hopeless when it comes to reality.

Crocodile answers her hesitation with an amused hum. It's a low, rolling noise that starts deep in his chest, traveling upward until it comes forth in the form of a dreamy note that nearly turns her bones to jelly. "Bad? I wouldn't say it was _bad_. It was… charming."

Shrike cringes as what she believes is a feigned compliment. That withering feeling of doubt has begun steadily creeping back in, making her want to run away all over again.

She groans and tucks her face down as her body instinctively tries to pull into itself. "No need to spare my feelings… I know it was terrible."

The sudden presence of his fingers curling beneath her chin makes her start in surprise. She stiffens from the sensation, too afraid to move under that feather-light touch. Not that it's unpleasant, in any way. He touches her lightly enough to avoid irritating the bruise blossoming along her jawline. It's more she rather not risk making that sensitive touch disappear… the feeling of its heat along her touch-starved skin is _indescribable_...

Her reaction makes him chuckle, and the sound is warm enough to stoke the dwindling fire still smoldering within her. It emboldens her further, pushing her to encourage his fingers to travel further with a gentle nod.

He readily accepts her silent plea with a smoldering, almost _knowing_ grin. His fingers trace along her jawline, spreading outwards until they fully cup her face. His thumb comes to rest on her cheekbone, where it absentmindedly teases light circles around the delicate skin beneath her eye.

"Now now, no need to hide such an expression from me." He purrs at her, his voice low and soft. "So flushed, so nervous, from just some light kissing..."

Shrike can't help but melt into him at that. Her cheek nuzzles into the palm cupping it, relishing in the warmth his fingers bring to her touch-starved skin. It almost threatens to send her under. Her face is feverish enough as is, and the excess heat somehow creeps all the way down her spine to melt her all over.

He chuckles, though his glowing expression dims slightly as his gaze flits down to look at the damage along her jaw. "So careless… You really should take better care of this cute face… "

For but a split second, she wants nothing more than to snap at him. Maybe even bite his hand again, seeing as how she's in the perfect position to do so. Implying she was careless because Daz had decided to punish her?! She'd fought her best, _dammit!_

' _Wait.'_

That blaze of indignation is gone as quickly as it appeared, quickly overshadowed by a different, more startling realization.

Crocodile just called her 'cute'.

The man she's been unwittingly pining over, calling handsome for probably weeks now without realizing it... The former shichibukai, dreaded pirate captain, heartless monster…

Just called her 'cute'.

A solid beat of silence drops between them before a nervous laugh bursts from her throat.

It's an airy, jittery noise, manifested from the incessant fluttering of the butterflies churning her stomach.

She's more doubtful than anything else. "You… you think I'm-"

"Cute?" He cuts her off, already knowing exactly where her mind is heading. "Do you not think the same?"

' _No_.' Her mind readily answers, though her tongue remains still. A part of her will always be that monstrous ghoul from her nightmare. As much as she's recovered in the past year, even the rest of her life may not be long enough to undo the damage suffered upon her self-image.

When she remains quiet, her eyes drifting away to look aside in the absence of an answer, he takes it upon himself to draw forth one on his own accord.

His thumb swipes across her kiss-swollen lips, tracing the plush lines so softly that she can't help but shiver. It makes her gaze flick back upward, and the playful smolder she finds waiting there pulls from her the tiniest of gasps.

The noise parts his own lips, ever so slightly tugging the corners upward. His thumb continues tracing along those delicate lines, her sensitive skin practically vibrating beneath its roughened pad. " _Especially_ when you do something as cute as that."

Shrike tries to look away as her face flushes even harder, but his palm holds her firm. He tilts her chin upward upon feeling the resistance, though he's careful not to press too much into her bruised skin.

The new angle forces her to look straight into those impossibly dark eyes of his. A spark glints in them, and it somehow chases any threat of a coherent thought from her mind. How can she possibly think straight beneath that gaze? Eyes that seem not to undress her, but take her apart body and soul to examine her on the most atomic of levels.

Crocodile grins at her, drinking deep of the flustered expression emblazoned across her face. She wants nothing more than to just wither away, to disappear entirely lest she somehow embarrasses herself more than she already has.

"Did you not believe me earlier? When I called you a ' _pretty face_ '?"

The wide-eyed look she gives him is all the answer he needs.

Croc' leans down, using his palm to guide her into another heated kiss. Everything about it is perfect, just as the one he delivered before. From the just the right amount of pressure to the heated passion, _fuck_ , to the way he pulls back slightly just to smile against her lips before diving right back in. It's all just so perfect. Indescribable.

She really is but an amateur compared to his expertise.

He releases her, though stays close enough she feels his heated breath ghost across her lips, puffed from the pressure and even more sensitive because of it.

"You are quite attractive, Shrike, I can assure you of that."

The butterflies in her stomach flutter out of control at this point, their tiny wings kicking up a storm that makes her tremble head to toe. It has her feeling both dangerously nauseous yet strikingly alive in a way she's never felt before. Everything is terrible and wonderful all at once, way too many conflicting feelings that converge and turn her mind into a quivering pile of goo.

It's been years since she's had any kind of… _intimacy_ , with anyone, pleasant or no.

She hadn't realized what she's been missing.

Crocodile shifts backward, returning to his full height to take a better view of all her flustered glory. He smirks at what he sees, and his eyes shine with an almost mischievous glint.

"You know, I never took you to be the bashful type." He purrs the words, and his fingers slide from her cheek to curl beneath her chin once more. They tilt her face upward to meet that scrutinizing look of his, pushing her jaw side to side to expose each flushed cheek. "That tough girl aesthetic is just an act, is it? Melted with away with just a little flirting?"

Intended or no, the words rub her the wrong way.

Shrike growls angrily, her pride a bit wounded from his insinuations, and brings a hand up to roughly clamp on his wrist. A flicker of surprise flashes on his face as she now glares at the man.

" _Watch. It._ " She near spits the words. The indignation in her tone is clear, though she hadn't expected his words to have incensed her this much. Her ego must still be sore from earlier, bruised just as much as her shoulders are. "I can end this as easily as it started. This is happening because I _allow_ it."

He only chuckles, and an utterly _charmed_ grin splits across his lips. The noise disarms her more than she wants to admit, though not as much as what follows. His hand comes up to card through her hair, and just the act of him tucking back a few silvery strands fills her with enough fluff as to make her feel nauseous.

"Ah, _there_ it is. There's that fire of yours." He purrs at her, the words brushing down her spine as if his hand was doing so itself. His tone's as soft as the smarmy grin on his face has become, an expression she somehow loves and wants to smack away both at once "There's Shrike. Never content to suffer a single slight… Always so much to prove."

Her mind goes blank, the only thoughts left devolving to an unintelligible string of question marks. She cocks her head to the side, and from the way the corner of his mouth twitches, she gets the feeling he's quite amused by her confusion.

"You seem _surprised_." He draws the word out slowly, tone conveying a playful sense of mock-bewilderment. His knuckles trace along her jawline, each one leaving distinct trails of heat emblazoned on her already inflamed cheeks. It's a struggle not to shudder beneath them. "Didn't think I'd find that defiant spark of yours so charming, did you?"

His words temporarily snap her back into focus, so utterly surprising as to break this spell he has over her.

" _Wait_. You _like_ that about me? It doesn-" She plants her hands on his chest. An action she immediately regrets, as she now has to force herself to ignore the way his muscles tense and ripple beneath her fingers. Even through the fabric of his shirt, she feels just how sharply they're defined.

' _Calm down, girl!_

"Drive me absolutely insane? Oh, it does. Even _I_ couldn't make a convincing lie about that." The expression of his face, meanwhile, has shifted to an almost wry fascination. It only makes her falter even more, that abrupt burst of courage already sputtering in her chest. "You just make it all so… _endearing,_ somehow."

Shrike looks at him with narrowed eyes, even going so far as to take a short step backward. As with most things that come unexpected, she heavily distrusts his words. Saying that he _likes_ that frustratingly obstinate part of her?

A lie. It _must_ be.

She shakes her head about, losing a bit of that kiss-born bubbliness. "I'm sorry, but that makes absolutely no sense."

It doesn't. It really doesn't. Her hotheadedness frustrates even _herself_ at times. For a man like Crocodile-cold, ruthless, supposedly a fearsome monster-to find it ' _endearing_ ' of all things? She wonders if he really had suffered a psychotic break earlier.

Or maybe… maybe this is all a dream? Worse, maybe they're her death throes and he really _did_ kill her. She wants to pinch herself, but resists. He'd definitely poke fun at her were he to notice.

A low, rumbling laugh pulls her back to the situation at hand. She hadn't noticed him take a step towards her, and the sudden presence of his hand coming to a rest on her upper arm makes her jump. He must've closed the gap while she'd been wrapped up in her thoughts.

"Sense? No, no I suppose it doesn't. It might be the most infuriating thing on the planet, this temper of yours, and yet you make it all so _charming_. I've since stopped trying to rationalize it."

Something about the tone of his voice tells her the irrationality of it all irks him a bit, too. For a man who relishes being in absolute, unquestionable control, having even just a single emotion run wild from him must certainly drive him crazy. The fact that his words indicate he's since given up on wrangling that stray feeling implies it must've been a rather hopeless venture to begin with.

It makes her all want to laugh.

Knowing that he, too, finds this whole mutual-infatuation to be as outlandish and nonsensical as she does? Even more, acting upon it anyway? She's grateful he's just as lost as she is. Her being the only one acting on such unsure footing would just be unfair.

"I, uh... Good to know I'm not the only one finding all this a bit… unexpected?" Shrike blushes and internally curses herself for her lack of eloquence. She really is just some lost stray when compared to him, even rehomed as she is.

"Unexpected… but not unwelcome." Crocodile gives her arm a gentle squeeze, expression glowing under the warmth of his smile. It's only then that she's reminded of just _what_ that hand is capable of. He could turn her to dust right this instant if he so chose to.

Yet, as crazy as she knows the thought is, she trusts that he won't. _Knows_ he won't. Maybe even can't. Though the time she's known him has been short, even she's realized that this is all more than just a little 'unusual' for him. It's entirely unprecedented.

Same as it is for her.

His fingers suddenly release from about her arm.

She wishes they'd stayed put, as his hand moves to a more… precarious.. position.

Her senses flare in high alert as his hand comes to a rest on her side. Its new resting spot, just barely above the curve of her hip, suddenly makes this all very _real_ to her.

Shrike now knows for a fact now that this is no dream.

That touch is very, very real.

And she's not so sure if she's ready for it… and the implications of intimacy it brings.

The realization hits her like a slap to the face: he wants to take this way further tonight than she can bear.

If he's noticed her sudden apprehension, he doesn't show it. His hand makes not a single movement to retreat from its newfound rest. There's no way he can't feel the way she's begun to tremble beneath those fingers, or the way her eyes have shifted downward to look at the floor.

Crocodile makes that amused humming sound again, the one that seems to resonate with every fiber of her being. "The _Butcher_ having her eye caught by _me,_ of all people? Now I supposed that is rather _unexpected_ , isn't it?" He draws out the word with the same inflection she'd spoken it with.

His flirting grants her enough courage to push down on his wrist, dislodging his hand such that it falls down to the empty air between them. Shrike gives him a playfully coy look, or, what she _hopes_ is a playfully coy look. "As if the _Butcher_ needs any justification. She can choose whoever she so wishes."

She crosses her arms in a hurry, letting a mock-pout creep into her expression in the hopes he sees the action as just her being flirty, and not for what it really was: a sly maneuver to ease the ramping intimacy she'd suddenly grown uncomfortable with.

The kissing she can only just barely handle. Anything more than that would surely doom it all… for _both_ of them.

A flicker of _something_ flits through Crocodile's expression, far too quick for her to read. That smarmy grin of his settles back in before she can think too much on it. "Oh no, no need to get defensive. As I said, this side of you really is _charming._ "

His fingers return to trace along the underside of her jaw, the sensation drawing from her a shallow parted-lip gasp despite the tough facade she's attempting to maintain. He grins even wider at that, and she notes with a shiver that his gaze has turned slightly… predatory.

Shrike gets the sudden impression that he sees her less as the _Butcher_ and more like the _prey_. Her attempted shift in demeanor-trying to act her usual defiant, blustery self-seems to have only enticed him further.

His eyes narrow as he tilts her chin upward, now hungrily boring into hers.

"Now what was that about choosing? Has the little _Butcher_ made a choice over something?"

' _Uh oh.'_ She doesn't like this question. All the answers she's thinking of lead down a path she's not necessarily sure she wants to traverse yet. Any variant of 'you' or 'this' may set this on a course of no return… to the bedroom she isn't ready to see.

So she defaults to humor instead.

"Yeah. I chose to let you kiss me."

His expression goes wide, genuine surprise crossing into his features, before letting loose an exasperated laugh. "Oh really? If I recall you _attempted_ to kiss me back."

Just like that, the fire comes rushing back.

"' _Attempted'?!"_ Shrike's pitch rises sharply from the insult. She smacks his hand away none-too-gently, and the noise of impact echoes about the room. "I'll have you know that's the first kiss I've given in...in-"

' _In how long, exactly…?'_ She genuinely cannot recall. Years, obviously. _'Whatever! Doesn't matter!'_

"-in a long time! _Years_ , even! So if you want any more from me then I suggest you learn to appreciate it!"

Of all the ways to appease Shrike's indignation, rolling your eyes at her is by far the least effective. It does the opposite, in fact, and few live to report that fact.

Her eyes go wide in fury as his eyes begin to roll, a snarl beginning to roll from her throat as she instinctively reaches forward to grab at his collar.

But she never gets the chance.

Before she can even begin raising her wrist, she's cut off with a surprised shriek.

He moves so quickly, she has no time to react. She's suddenly scooped up into his arms… and up against his _chest_. His hand presses into the small of her back once more, just as it did earlier in that tortuously sweet way. This time, though, it's not to support her from a fall, but to hold her firm as he kisses her with more passion than she's ever felt from anyone else in her entire life.

A fact that more than a little freaks her out.

Things are moving out of her control.

Worse, the position means she _has_ to wrap her legs about his torso as he balances her on his other arm. Her conscious thoughts quickly begin to fade as her flustered panic returns with a vengeance.

The cool metal of the base of his hook against her thigh reminds her just how painfully small her shorts are… and also that she doesn't have a shirt on beneath her hoodie. They're probably what's given him this idea that she's okay with this sort of… turn of events. She'd never planned on running into anyone when she ventured forth with Phoebe from her room. How could she have ever anticipated something like _this_ of all things?

Her face goes even redder at the realization, surely stark crimson now. Surely, he has to feel the heat radiating from her cheeks, even as occupied as he is with their kiss...

He detaches for but a single moment, letting her catch a quick breath, before roughly kissing her again. If she thought the one just prior was overwhelming, this one's nearly _devastating_ to what little composure she's managed to keep. The force is bruising, demanding and insistent, taking from her whatever he wants and then some.

It goes further than before, venturing beyond the safety of just her lips...

Shrike feels herself coming undone, starting to unravel at the seams as his presence overwhelms her. It grows and grows and grows until it's just _too_ much.

Her hands plant on his chest, pressing insistently to be given air, to be given _space_.

A request she is gratefully given.

He releases her, groaning a dreamy sigh that would've melted her straight to the bone were she not so flustered. The look on his face looks just as airy, though it quickly drops as he takes a look at her own. Worry knits into his brow, and his lips purse together as he takes note of the pervasive unease afflicting the woman held captive in his arms.

"You…" He begins, and from the way his voice trails off, it's clear he's not quite sure where he should end.

He speaks with action instead.

The world spins as he turns on his heel, and the sudden movement has her leaning forward to cling to his chest.

It's too hot. Just as everything else is right now.

She's faintly aware that he's walking, head too foggy and overheated to take much stock in what's going on around her right now.

He takes only a few short steps-"Phobos, down"-before setting Shrike down on the edge of his desk. It's not until she's safely sitting on her own, no longer claustrophobically pressed up against him, that she remembers to _breathe_.

Her chest heaves from the force of her gasp, lungs crying out for air as if she's been submerged for hours. She notes the way her limbs has begun to tremble, though they almost feel like someone else's. The panic has sent her to that dissociative headspace, so impossibly overwhelmed by the ardor of his actions that her body can no longer handle it.

This is all too much, too soon.

Shrike sits numbly, staring straight ahead. Her gaze goes right through him as she forces her breathing to steady. Forces herself to _calm_.

Crocodile's fingers abruptly curl beneath her chin once more, though with a gentle touch, almost as if to avoid startling her. He slowly tilts her face upward to meet his scrutinizing gaze.

She'd previously felt he'd been forcing her to meet his eyes due to some selfish desire to see her squirm, drowning in their dark depths. Now though, as he peers deep down into her own, she's not so sure. She watches his irises flit about, their movements almost minuscule, as though they're _searching_ for something. Seeking an answer to a question he hasn't explicitly asked of her.

Those eyes narrow after a few moments, but she can't tell whether it's with warmth or with condescension. At the very least, it seems he's picked up on her apprehension.

"Why, Shrike…"

She shivers at the way he draws out her name, like it's some precious thing.

"...So tough… so fierce… but suffer through a few kisses and you're left flushed and trembling like some young maiden."

A nervous half-laugh spills from her throat. "I can assure you I'm not a _maiden_ , jeez. Really, I told you it's just been a long time since… since…" She trails off as another bout of heat singes her cheeks.

His thumb abruptly slides over to trace along her lips, just as it did earlier. It's… sweet, though not as sweet as the warmth that's crept back into his features. She notices it happening in real-time, as if he's not consciously aware of it happening himself. A little glimmer begins to take light in his eyes, growing brighter the more he beams down at her.

His lips abruptly press into hers once more before she can object, though less desperately than before. This one is slower, more of a low, _deep_ heat than a scorching blaze, like he's savoring the territory he's already discovered rather than claiming it as he had earlier.

Her hands knead into the chest of his shirt, searching for anything to keep her stable before the trembling wracking her body grows any worse. He makes a rumbling noise of appreciation, and that alone threatens to pull her undone all over again.

It's the kind of kiss that could go on forever: slow and patient and tender and all too tortuously sweet.

He's far too good at this.

A fact that fills her with unease… She gets the feeling this is all him trying to pull down any further resistance of hers. Shrike needs to cool him down, get him in a different mindset where she can talk about boundaries and the things that come _before_ diving right into _sex_ of all things.

Crocodile doesn't seem to notice her disquiet as he pulls away. Or, if he has, he's willingly chosen to ignore it. Instead, he fixes her with a look that's downright smoldering. His half-lidded eyes deeply focus on her own as he slowly licks his lips, slightly puffed from the kisses he's delivered from them.

"A long time since what, Shrike? Since you've shared a kiss with anyone?"

He leans forward then, trailing those lips softly up her jawline, ghosting hot breath as he moves towards her ear. The sensation has her gasping, teeth worrying at her lower lip from how sensitive it all is.

It's too close for comfort.

He stops there, peppering heated kisses about the nape of her neck. Never has anything so pleasurable triggered such a flight instinct in her.

This needs to slow down.

She's not ready for this.

A breath of hot air right below her ear makes her full-body shiver. She feels him grin devilishly against the delicate skin there. "Or what, since you've been _touched_?"

His hand suddenly presses up against the small of her back, that damnable pressure that started all this. She jolts upright at its abrupt presence, a shocked squeak slipping from her throat.

He puffs a short laugh against her neck, completely misinterpreting her reaction as having been a pleasurable one.

"Don't think I didn't feel the way you started to tremble when I caught you earlier."

Shrike needs to distract him _now_ , get his mind off of _this_. The thought nearly turns her brain to mush, just imagining him taking her to bed and… or does he plan to take her right here and now on this very desk-

The words explode from her mouth, not at all disguising the panic that's quickly engulfed her head to toe.

"You're not mad?! About D'Lore that is!"

It had to be on _that_ topic of all things.

Crocodile stops abruptly, stiff as a board. A sudden puff of hot air ghosts about the curve of her neck, though that's not what has her wincing.

It's the _growl_ that chases it that does.

"Must you really bring that up? Right now?" The impatience in his tone is clear.

He pulls away from her, standing up to full height. The look on his face is of abject displeasure: mouth having curved into a pout, scar scrunched together as his nostrils flare.

Shrike completely withers under that look, very much regretting the choice in diversion. Though it's not as if her runaway mouth gave her much of a choice.

"Sorry! I… just feel really bad for it, is all." She picks at her fingers anxiously, a nervous tick she hopes he hasn't picked up on. "I can't quite shake it from my head…"

The expression on his face remains unchanged for the most part, all sour scowl and obvious annoyance. His eyes then slip closed after a few seconds, and he sighs hard enough that his shoulders lift and sag. "If you insist…"

He takes a step backward, crossing his arms over his chest. That smolder has all but disappeared, and his eyes have lost much of their previous ardor. He now looks at her with a more… neutral expression. Annoyed still, but with less bite than before.

"Earlier… Yes, Shrike, I was furious."

She immediately winces, chin instinctively tucking down into her chest as her shoulders hunch forward. Her ankles hook together, too, and the overall image truly makes her look like a scolded child.

Though this is somehow far preferable than what was going on before.

The sudden presence of not his fingers, but his _hook_ on her chin makes her jump. Though he uses the blunt curve to tilt her face back upward, the cool metal pressing into her skin is a more than uncomfortable reminder of just _who_ she's dealing with.

Of just who she's been making out with…

He forces her to meet his gaze once more, an insistence of his she's quickly tiring of. How can she possibly think straight beneath that scrutinizing stare?

Though, that's probably the point. Crocodile relishes being in unquestionable control; she wouldn't put it past him to be doing this on purpose just to have the upper hand… even if the matter at hand was just playful flirting.

At least he doesn't leave her to languish for long, this time.

He huffs again, gaze temporarily flitting to the corner of his eyes before settling back on her face. That hook stays right where it is. "Yes, I was mad… but not necessarily at _you_ , per se."

Shrike stiffens. Her lips part slightly as she tries to processes his words. This is not the admonishment she'd expected… nor does it seem to be an admonishment at all, in fact.

"What…What do you mean, 'not at _me_ '?"

She shivers as the warmth of his hand returns, having moved to cup her face once more.

If she could stop being such a jittery mess, that'd be wonderful.

He holds her firm beneath his stare, made to wither under its oppressive aura as his eyes bore into hers. They seem to be searching for something again, just as they were but a few minutes earlier. If only he'd just ask the question to whatever answer he's looking for! She'd rather just tell him than suffer beneath this type of dissection.

After a few moments of tense silence, it seems he's found a satisfactory answer. He huffs again, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath. As if he's choosing his next words carefully.

The hand falls away from her face, though the hook remains. That makes her more than just a little uncomfortable.

"I was angered by the _situation_ , Shrike. To see someone as clever as you fall for such a cheap ruse… It was frustrating, to say the least."

That makes her perk up a bit. Shrike blinks once, twice, not quite sure if she'd heard him correctly. She reclines backward, careful not to catch herself on the sharp point of his hook as she does so.

"You think… you think I'm clever?"

He leans along with her, and his presence now leaning over her makes her beyond uneasy. A smug, almost _knowing_ grin spreads across his face. That predatory look in his eyes has returned.

"Yes, Shrike. You're clever, alright."

She shivers as his lips ghost along her jawline, tracing that same path as before as he moves to tortuously kiss about her neck.

"So, very, clever."

This is getting out of control again. It has to _stop_.

Almost as if he could hear the inner thoughts screaming in her head, he pauses right at her ear. She feels the grin abruptly drop off his face.

"Naive, though."

A beat drops.

"What… naive? What are you-" She tries to lean away, detangle herself from the oppressive presence hovering over her far too close to bear. He stops her with a hand about her upper arm, and a bolt of fear shoots through her chest as she _feels_ the air between them grow cold.

"Thought you were clever enough to hide what you're doing? Didn't think I would notice?" Crocodile's voice is low and playful, but she would've had to have been utterly oblivious to not notice the bite beneath it.

Above all else, even above the fear, it makes her _angry_.

"The hell are you tal-"

He cuts her off, tone sharp and bitter. "Naive to think that I wouldn't realize that you _don't want this_."

His hand suddenly lets go of her arm, only for its presence to reappear tightly gripped about her _upper thigh_.

She gasps and shoves him, both hands planted on his chest to get him _away_. Panic sets into her chest as she pants. Her arms stay locked in front of her, palms outward in what would most definitely be a futile attempt if he really did want to continue.

But from the gloating, smug look on his face, she knows he doesn't.

She knows she's been _caught_.

"See? You think you're being subtle, trying to stop this without having the courage to actually say it." The impatience in his tone is clear, as is the same in his eyes. "What's your game? What are you trying to do? I've never forced myself on anyone and I'd rather it never happen, so If you don't want this then _tell_ me!"

Shrike glares at him, though the rest of her body language isn't nearly as confident. Her arms wrap across her chest, hands gripped about her elbows, and her knees press together as if that alone could magically make her shorts less revealing. She suddenly feels agonizingly exposed.

"I'm not _playing_ anything! There's just… there's just a lot of things that come in a relationship before _sex_ does!" Her face scorches red hot as blurts the words out, and her gaze quickly falls down and away, unable to meet his exasperated expression.

Crocodile actually _scoffs_ , a questioning expression wrinkling his brow as he looks at her incredulously. "You thought… You thought I could give you anything _more_ than sex? Did you think this was going to be anything more than that?"

She stares at him, expression having gone just as blank as her mind has. His words have chased any and all thoughts from her head. She can't process them. Can't even begin to interpret them.

All Shrike can do is stare at him, helpless as she feels new cracks form in her already scarred heart…

* * *

 **Author Notes:** What, did you think this was going to be _easy_ , Shrike? Don't worry folks, this story will have a happy ending... the journey to get there? We got a lot of soul-searching to do.


	8. End of the Beginning

**Chapter Summary:** For once in her life, Shrike is wanted by someone… If only he actually _wanted_ to want her.

* * *

His words hit her as if he did himself.

They strike her without warning or mercy, and Shrike can only stare at him blankly in confusion. She's utterly speechless, too blindsided to properly process what's happening much less come up with a response. Not a single scathing retort comes to mind. Not a single furious accusation.

Not a single _word_.

Her entire body has gone numb, limbs feeling more like phantoms than flesh and blood. All the oppressive heat that'd been smothering her body and soul has vanished, and naught but a yawning void's been left in its wake.

Empty. Numb. Cold.

' _Stupid.'_ The only word that dares surface from the haze freezing her thoughts.

Crocodile frowns at her when she doesn't answer. His expression wrinkles his scar about the bridge of his nose, conveying everything from frustration to condescending pity, All it does is further twist the knife he's buried in her chest, and the cracks in her heart splinter all the wider because of it.

"Did you really think this would turn into anything more?" he asks her again. His words form a question, yet both his tone and the look he gives her indicate full well he already knows the answer.

She did because, _of course,_ she did. How very like the abandoned stray to long for something it could never have in the first place.

Regardless, Shrike still can't bring herself to answer. Even if she could think of anything to say, the crushing self-loathing and humiliation would just suppress any will to say it aloud.

What type of answer could she hope to give to justify herself?

That she foolishly misinterpreted his physical attentions as something more, could she? Gave into her girlish hopes that someone could ever care about her in such a way?

Or that she made the mistake of believing that someone like him could possibly feel anything even remotely assembling _affection_?

Naive.

Just as he said.

All she feels is numb.

Numb and so very, very _stupid_.

Shrike's chin slowly drops, falling all the way down until she's left staring listlessly at the tops of her thighs. Even gazing straight at them, she barely registers the way her knees have begun to bleed. Splotches of red stain the white linen bandages she so carefully wrapped not but an hour earlier. It must've happened when she fell… after she bit him…

How so much can happen in just a turn of the clock.

Those crimson stains are all she can bear to look at right now, all she can bear to even think about. Meeting the condescending expression plastered on his face would only let more of the hurt in.

Thinking about it all might as well just kill her.

' _Stupid. Idiot. As if you're even capable of being cared about… As if anyone could like you…'_

But even as the words form in her thoughts, other images do as well. Memories from just minutes ago of him grinning at her, his sonorous voice complimenting her and banishing all her self-doubts with sweet words alone, his palm so tenderly holding her cheek with a touch as warm as sunlight…

How can that very same expression now look at her with such disdain? Such contempt? The same one that'd looked at her so warmly, lighting up with an indiscernible spark the more he spoke and thought of her as if… as if he himself hadn't realized it was happening?

Shrike suddenly feels so very blind, as if she's missed something obvious.

Something that hasn't yet dawned on her.

She's faintly aware that Croc's talking to her. Talking _at_ her, more like. She doesn't hear his words so much as she's dimly aware of his voice. It's impossible to focus on, her mind instead honing in on this nagging feeling itching about the insides of her skull.

What has she missed?

That image of his warm grin, eyes smoldering with a foreign light keeps coming back to her, replaying over and over again… His expression radiating genuine affection, unwittingly or no…

"Shrike, really? Don't make me repeat myself. You're acting childish."

Something about hearing her name finally grabs her attention. No, not just that. It's the tone of his voice that does it. Even as faintly as she'd been listening, it'd sounded off.

 _Defensive._

Her face snaps up, finally daring to look at him once more.

There really is no better word to describe the air of the man before her than that: _Defensive_.

Crocodile stands a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. He's angled his body away rather than face her head on, and even the expression on his face looks overly uncomfortable. He radiates such over-contemptuousness about him that it's clearly unnatural. That usual cool confidence of his is nowhere to be seen, and only a sham of it attempts to hide the anxiety she now recognizes lurking just beneath the surface of his disguise.

It's a disguise that's just as poor as the one Hawken wore earlier this afternoon. Only now, Shrike immediately sees it for what it is.

All at once, the little voice in her head whispers to her. It murmurs just a single word.

It arcs a bolt of lightning through her chest, carrying too many emotions all at once to properly bear a single label. The word echoes about her head, growing louder and louder with each rebound until the roar of blood rushes in her ears and she feels the level of contempt he's _attempting_ to display.

The voice speaks to her again. Not with a whisper, but with a _roar_ : ' _LIAR!'_

For the first time since she's met him, Shrike has caught Crocodile in a lie.

Never once has she been able to tell when he's lying, even as skilled as she is at reading people. His tells are nonexistent. Not a single tick, neither in his body language or tone of voice, has ever tipped her off to one of his lies. Even when she knows what he's saying to be false-a lie told to a mark in the middle of an exchange-not a single physical thing about him had ever changed from when he spoke the truth.

He's never been as emotionally invested in one as much he is now, though, and now his lies glow just as brightly as the glimmer in his eyes had.

Whether he knows it or not.

She meets his wary gaze with newfound confidence, those dreadfully dark irises of his seemingly challenging her to argue. Does he even know he's been found out? Does he himself even know he's lying.

Or is he completely and utterly in denial?

Another rush of images: that secretive, warm smile when they're alone; playful, soft words neither of them recognizes as flirting; gifts fondly chosen for her, wrapped with the utmost care and adorned with a note in his flawless script...

...Shadowy eyes glinting with a light she's never seen in them before, a warm spark that lights them from the inside out with what can only be described as adoration.

She has to know for sure that this is all a lie, that he really _does_ feel more for her than he ever wants to admit. No, she _needs_ to know, and the only way to find out is to catch him in the middle of another one.

It's only now that Shrike finally speaks, her voice so calm as to be unnerving. Lifeless.

"You thought you could just use me… for sex? ...You don't feel anything more?"

She says it carefully, timing each pause to gauge his reaction as the words process in his mind.

And it's exactly what she'd been looking for.

His eyes narrow just a hair, his lip only just barely twitching. Both movements bordered on being nigh imperceptible, and she would've missed them had she not been staring him down, a hawk ready to dive on any sign of vulnerability.

An uncomfortable beat of silence drops. Too long for him to have readily spoken a truth, too short for it to have been for purposeful effect. Instead, his response is a stream of words that comes out too quickly, each syllable threatening the space of another.

"' _Use'_ you? It was intended to be mutually beneficial, I assure you. _You're_ the one that came up with this irrational, _senseless_ idea that I'd give you a _relationship_ , of all things!"

Shrike sees his eye twitch as he says it; subtle, blink-and-you-miss-it. As if the very act of saying the words required a tortuous amount of self-control. Even so, his pitch peters slightly, gradually rising towards the end in a manner that can only be described as overly accusatory; projecting, shifting the blame onto someone else.

If Crocodile really didn't care, his voice would've been flat. Calm. It would've been as finely controlled as the night they met, when he'd causally ordered Daz to kill the same man she'd arrived to kill herself.

The voice just now was not that same one of cool composure.

It was of only just barely restrained emotion.

The whisper in her head roars as vindicated fury stokes the flames of war in her chest: ' _LIAR! COWARD!'_

What sound actually comes forth is almost serene.

A laugh. Short and airy. It falls from her lips as she shakes her head in disbelief. Not that she's surprised he'd dare lie to her face, _that_ she easily believes. She doesn't doubt for a second he's done it probably hundreds of times already.

No, what Shrike has a hard time believing is that a man that takes such care to project an air of implacability, of _unshakeable_ class and poise, is so intimidated about _feeling_ for once that he's driven to petty projections as childish as this. Though, be it par for the course for him to eschew responsibility for his actions… anything to avoid confronting how he really feels.

She almost pities him for how terrified he must be. _Almost_.

Upon her laughter, Crocodile's shape practically _vibrates_ from the way his body so abruptly stiffens. His eyes go wide first in shock, before quickly narrowing into wary slits. An undeniable sense of distrust lurks beneath their dark surface. He exhales a poorly disguised sigh, air rushing out too roughly to suggest a man at ease. His knuckles and jaw repeatedly tense and relax, clear evidence of the flustered energy that would've been driving him to pace about the room had he not been trying too hard to look mildly annoyed rather than the genuinely anxious that he truly is.

The words that come out of his mouth are measured and cautious, but that only makes the anxiety beneath them all the more apparent. "It seems you've finally come to your senses... Have you realized how foolish you're being?"

Shrike doesn't answer him. He huffs at her silence, arms pulling closer to his body just a hint tighter.

His body language remains as tense as before. The way his fingers fidget slightly, how he's begun to tap a foot on the floor… It almost makes her laugh again. She wonders if he's even _trying_ to hide that anxiety wracking him inside out. That, or she's finally deciphered the code on how to properly read the man.

Right now, all she sees is a cornered beast with blunted fangs and broken claws, raising its hackles to make itself seem more dangerous than it actually is.

Shame it took _this_ for her to finally get it.

If _anything_ good has come out of this mess, it's being able to see him in such a state. Seeing him so obviously out of his element, his usual cool demeanor nowhere to be seen. That quick wit and cunning failing him so… The victory of seeing it all tastes almost as sweet as the kisses they'd shared just a few minutes earlier…

A sweetness that immediately curdles, replaced by the acrid tang of bile as she's reminded of just how cruelly he's attempted to play her. How he's so callously toyed with her heart.

Crocodile must've sensed her rising anger. He rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders in the lack of any verbal response from her. "If you want to feel sorry for yourself, then do so in your own quarters. It's late."

Shrike only laughs again at that. Though this one is more of a bark, decidedly colored with the acidic scorn eating away inside her. Oh no, she has no intention of leaving anytime soon. Not without having yet made him feel even just a tiny fraction of the humiliated anguish he's selfishly afflicted upon her in his cowardice.

A cold smirk stretches across her lips as she beholds him, yellow eyes glinting with damning contempt. Still sitting at the edge of his desk, she reclines backward such that she's braced on her palms extended out behind her.

"Eager to send me away so quickly?" Shrike coos at him with faux sympathy, the words saccharine in her falsely sweet tone. "You must be more afraid than I thought."

Croc's eyes go wide, first with shock, then with confusion, before narrowing into the thin slits of fury. His lips pull backward, beginning to expose his gritted teeth as a low _growl_ emanates from somewhere deep in his chest.

It seems she's struck a nerve. Not that she's surprised. As if a self-important man like himself would stand to suffer being laughed at and ridiculed so.

' _How childish.'_

"' _Afraid?'_ What are you insinuating, Agent?" The tone of his voice carries just as much undisguised venom as the furious glint in his scowl does.

Shrike can only sigh, rolling her eyes at him having devolved to using her title rather than name. As if that would magically take back all the kisses they'd just shared.

As if that'd make these feelings he's so obviously terrified of go away.

He bristles as the exhale leaves her lips, his body _actually,_ physically vibrating now. The sheer influx of emotion flooding his system has overwritten his carefully honed barriers of self-control. Tendrils of sand angrily lash in the air along his shoulders, a physical representation of just how infuriated he is. It's just the same as when he unwittingly began to desiccate the ground beneath him during their confrontation earlier today.

Though rather than the terror she'd felt then, all Shrike can think of now is a petulant child stamping their foot.

" _Answer me, Agent."_ He practically spits each syllable, infusing them with biting vitriol.

"Oh, it's 'Agent' again, is it?" It's only then that she hops down off his desk. The impact with the floor upsets the ache in her knees, though she doesn't bother to hide the discomfort contorting her features.

Maybe seeing her in pain would just make it all the more real for him.

What he's so in denial about: the fact that he _cares_.

She doesn't wait for a response, sauntering towards him as casually as her bandages would allow. His piercing glower bores into her unwaveringly the short distance over, though it has little effect in cowing her. She meets it and feels _nothing_.

Nothing save for the smoldering fury singeing the underside of her sternum.

Shrike comes to a stop right before him, noting the way his fingers grip about his arm so tight that he might as well desiccate himself in his own indignance.

The role reversal brings a contemptuous smirk to her face, and, of course, that only seems to piss him off even more. He begins to open his mouth, probably to bark another order to either answer him or demand 'proper' respect like the big bitch he's acting like.

She cuts him off before he can even form a single sound. "I'm not insinuating anything. I'll say it outright: You, _Sir Crocodile_ , scourge of the seas, wanted traitor, would-be kingslayer..."

She drags each title out with mock deference, each one only making the bitter grin on her face all the wider.

"...You are nothing but a _coward_." Her finger jabs into his chest, not at all fearful of the beast supposedly adorned with all the claims to infamy she's just rattled off. "A self-absorbed, pompous jackass afraid of his own _feelings_!"

Dead. Silence.

For but a split second, the expression on his face freezes in what she can only describe as wide-eyed horror.

Only to be quickly overshadowed by unmitigated rage.

 _Flustered_ rage.

Shrike's seen through that flimsy lie trying to cover his shame and he knows it. If only he could've just admitted it right then and there to save them both the trouble… and the heartbreak.

Because it's just like Crocodile to retaliate twice-fold for any insult levied against him.

"A _coward_?! You're just upset because you assumed I thought more of you than just a useful _body_! You're nothing more than a stray-"

His eyes twitch again as he says the word, almost like a wince.

Shrike doesn't register it. Her vision goes red as blood roars in her ears all at once, the world triggering that righteous, _primal_ fury of hers. It's the very same fury that'd awoken the night she made her first kill, an impulsive force driving her to strike down the man before her with impunity.

She responds in the only way possible to convey exactly what she's feeling.

Her fist connects with the underside of his jaw with blinding speed, not giving him a single moment of warning. The uppercut connects on the right side of his jawline with a satisfying click of his teeth, the sound echoing around the room along with a surprised grunt.

Had she been of clearer mind, Shrike would've been wondering how she'd managed to hit him, why he hadn't just turned to sand beneath her knuckles.

Right now she's too incensed to think of anything besides forcing him to own up to his _bullshit_.

" _You lying son of a bitch!"_ She steps forward as he's knocked backward, immediately grabbing for his collar. Funny, that she'd done so just tens of minutes earlier to wrench him down for a kiss instead. Now, it's to tear him down, knock his arrogant ass from the throne that he thinks makes him untouchable.

"You think I don't see it?! That I don't _hear_ it in your voice?! Look me in the face and _dare_ lie through your teeth to me again!"

Crocodile stares at her in stunned silence, mouth slightly parted in the wake of her brazen audacity. Whether it's because she dared hit him or that she even managed to do it in the first place isn't clear. In all her acts of defiance, from the most innocuous to even the most brazen, never once has she dared retaliate against him so.

But there's another expression, hidden, lurking just beneath the surface of his shocked expression, hinted at by the barely noticeable tingeing of pink about his scar.

Bewildered _Awe._

It's not until a thin splotch of red gathers at the corner of his mouth that he snaps back into focus, the abrupt tang of iron reminding him of his outrage.

Crocodile disintegrates so suddenly that Shrike can't stop herself from stumbling forward. The fabric that'd been tightly wadded in her grasp collapses into sand, the particles exploding outward between the gaps in her fingers. The rest of him follows suit, leaving her empty hand flailing outward as she rushes to catch herself.

Her toes barely touch back down to the ground before the cool metal of his hook presses up underneath her jaw. She freezes, body going stiff as she feels the sting of its tip nick into her already bruised skin.

All it does it piss her off even more.

Shrike glares up at him, a snarl tearing itself from her throat as her hauntingly yellow irises pierce into him like the knives she loves so very much. She reaches up to smack the damn thing away only for him to halt her with a barked order.

" _Don't even think of it!_ " Croc shifts his wrist just enough that the hook bites just a tiny bit deeper. "One move and you'll bleed out on this floor! I've tolerated this mutiny long enough!"

He tries to sound menacing, as if it were a real threat, only for the bluff to fall comically flat.

Shrike can only laugh, an indignant snort of disbelief pushing through her nose. "Oh, _as if!_ Do it then! I fucking dare you!"

She grins at him then, a maddened, arrogant expression, as she tilts her neck and offers it in mock submission. Tribute for him to brutally tear out himself had he the balls to own up to his threats.

He won't. She knows he's toothless.

As expected, Crocodile's eyes twitch with a frustrated, desperate expression. The look of a man caught red-handed in the middle of a bluff.

Shrike pounces on his hesitation, not at all about to let him have it easy.

"What, I'm just a ' _body'_ right?!" She throws the insult he'd hurled at her back in his face, relishing in the way he flinches as the word leaves her tongue. "Seeing me dead shouldn't bother you, then!"

She grabs for the base of his hook as she snaps at him, wrapping a tight grip about it before pressing it up deeper into her jaw to better make her point. A single red rivulet barely begins to run down the golden metal before it's abruptly yanked it away.

Crocodile practically leaps backward to get away, though it's really only a single step. The look on his face is some cross between enraged and deeply flustered. He knows he's been found out, and _she_ now knows how desperate he is to escape from her; this maddened harpy ripping him open to expose every, damn, _wretched_ piece of him.

Shrike gives him no time to respond, breaking the silence with a deep, haughty laugh. "I _knew it_! You can't kill me! You can't even _hurt_ me! Oh, you really _are_ a coward!"

He growls, and she swears she can see a bolt of fire strike through his eyes. "I should've just killed you the moment we met. When you so brazenly tried to kill _me_!" But the uncertainty underlying his tone says it all.

"Oh, _shut-it._ You can't kill me, and you never _will_ be able to kill me! Do you know why?" She plants her hands on her hips, cocking her head to the side as a vindictive smirk stretches across her lips. "It's because for once in your lonely, _miserable_ life you _care_ about someone else! You care and that _terrifies_ you!"

He can't even say anything back. Shrike sees the gears turning in his head, churning furiously as they desperately try to think of some response only for nothing to emerge. How can he? When he's been so thoroughly caught and trapped as he is, his lies having backfired to explosive effect.

What's worse, he can't just take the easy way out as he usually would. This time, the witness, the _one_ loose end, is the one thing he can't currently bear to get rid of. Shrike's the only person in the whole world he can't possibly bring himself to harm.

And she knows it.

She closes the gap between them with a single step, not wanting to let him think he can just step out of this mess. Not when she hasn't finished rubbing his nose in it, yet. Hands planted on her hips again, she arches herself to directly glare up into him. Her scornful confidence meets his anxious frustration with flying sparks.

"'Terrified', I said it. You're too afraid to accept your feelings, too afraid to kill them, and now you're too afraid to even _answer me!_ "

He flinches like she's punched him again, and genuine anger settles back into his eyes. The rekindled flames overwrite the uncertainty lingering there prior, emboldening the embers to flare brightly once more. Now, he gives her an indignant look that'd look much more at home on her face rather than his.

"The only thing to accept here is that this isn't happening and never will! All I want is for you to _get_ that! Get it and forget all of this happened!"

"You don't even deny it anymore!" She jabs a finger at his face with a snarl, though her heart sings with vindication. "You _do_ want me and that scares you! And now your genius plan is to just pretend this never happened?!"

Crocodile only snarls right back, at the same time grabbing her wrist with bruising force. The abrupt pressure makes her wince, and his grip immediately loosens upon seeing it. She feels nothing but contempt for his lack of resolve.

He presses on without hesitation. "What did you expect from me? That I'd suddenly start fawning over you like some fairy tale prince?! Shrike, you need to _grow up!_ "

She gawps at him, so impossibly insulted she just can't _not_. "' _Grow up'!? You're_ the one acting like a child! Lying and threatening me because you don't know how to handle these emotions like a grown-ass adult!"

His mouth opens to respond but she cuts him off before he gets the chance.

"And what did _you_ expect to happen, anyway? That you'd fuck me and that'd be enough to satisfy these _uncomfortable_ feelings of yours? And what if that didn't work?! You'd send me back to my room, 'thanks for the fuck, but sorry, I like you too much'!?"

" _DAMMIT_ , NO!" He throws her wrist down as his volume raises to a frustrated yell, the voice of a man who's finally reached his breaking point. "It wasn't supposed to get this far! You were supposed to reject me! We'd both see how futile this all is and _give-up_!"

Shrike can only stare at him dumbstruck, and from the equally flustered look on his face, it seems he's also realized just how mind-boggling idiotic such a plan was. Shame it took for it being put into words for him to realize it. His cheeks tinge pink in heated embarrassment, the color deepening the most along the edges of his scar.

It would've been adorable had she not been so emotionally devastated.

She takes a step backward. Her arms listlessly fall to her sides as she weakly shakes her head in disbelief. "Really? You didn't stop to think… that I might actually want this?"

He doesn't answer, not with words, anyway. His gaze flicks to the side, averting itself from meeting those pale eyes of hers, all the more haunting in her scorn. Those of raptor judging the twitching prey at its talons.

It's only after a sigh bursts from his throat, world-weary and exhausted, that he bothers to look at her again. That frustrated, almost disappointed look on his face only makes her want to tear him to shreds, and she feels her lips retreating backward to expose her canines upon seeing it.

Though nothing infuriates her as much as what dares come out of his mouth.

"I thought you smarter than that, but it seems I was wrong. I should've known better than to expect that from you of all people."

Shrike visibly begins to shake, gripped so tightly by the fury burning away any shred of reason still left lingering in her thoughts. She acts on rage alone. Her left hand darts up to coil itself back into his collar, blindingly quick just as before, catching him entirely unawares.

Crocodile doesn't make a move to dissolve himself, either too blindsided or simply not fast enough. The fabric twined in Shrike's fingers stays just that, not a single coarse particle of sand to be felt.

With her strike just moments ago, she'd assumed it'd happened because she caught him off-guard. Now, as he only braces himself for the blow her other arm's winding back to deliver, a small part of her realizes: ' _He's_ letting _me hit him.'_

Her fist stops just short of crumpling his nose.

Neither says anything. Not a word. Their eyes pierce into one another with scorn and… despair.

Shrike breaks the silence first, and the weak tremble in her voice only fills her with a burning self-loathing. "Did you think… that this would work instead? Insulting me. Riling me up. Letting me hit you." The accusations fall from her lips weakly, each sounding more drained than the last.

"You thought all of this would make it easier for me to forget, didn't you." It's a statement of fact more than a question. She knows the answer. This is all just another _genius_ trick of his. Something to make her hate him, to make her stop caring so much.

Wounds inflicted to tear out whatever affection she has for him in such a way they scar over, never to form again. It only hurts all the worse, more evidence that he cares enough to seek sparing her the very same feelings ravaging him within and without.

"And you called _me_ naive?" Her voice cracks, finally pushed to the point of tears after coming to terms with the fact that he wants nothing more than to _not_ want her.

A sudden, high-pitched hissing cuts through the air, followed closely by the frantic scrabbling of clawed feet. Two sets of eyes flick to the side as Phoebe comes darting out from behind the desk, scampering towards them as fast as her little legs can carry her before skidding to a halt between them.

The position she takes is the final knife that breaks Shrike's heart.

The little reptile plants herself defiantly, an aggressive pose trying to get Shrike away from her master. She gives a few warning nips at Shrike's ankles, and a stream of crackles and hisses that can only be expletives falls from her fang-exposed maw. Her blood-hued eyes stare up at the woman frozen mid-punch at her owner, though not without a hint of trepidation.

Of course.

It only makes sense that Sir Crocodile would keep pets most loyal only to him.

That doesn't make the betrayal hurt any less.

Shrike glares down at Phoebe, but as the tiny creature stares back up at her with fear in her eyes, little legs beginning to tremble, any ire she feels promptly sputters and dies.

All she's left with is suffocating anguish.

"You _would_ choose him." She spits the words at the distraught little croc, doing her best to ignore the biting sting in her chest as she flinches. "Fine. I don't need you."

Her gaze flits back up to Crocodile's, and the mournful, defeated look she finds there feels like a blow straight to the chest. It makes the words come out with a pitiful tremble. "I don't need _either_ of you."

She moves to pivot on her heel, wanting nothing more than to leave this suffocate office and rid herself of the both of them.

Except, he stops her.

His hand grips her by the upper arm for but a second before he's twisting her back around to face him.

Crocodile pulls her into one last kiss before she can stop him. His lips crash onto hers with desperate abandon, seeking one selfish, final indulgence despite all he's done to push her away. She can't but help but gasp into him as his hand shifts to her cheek and draws her up more into him, into this damning kiss so tender that nothing can stop the tears forming in her eyes.

She loves it.

She hates it.

She hates how much she loves it.

It's nothing but a brutal reminder of what could've been. What they could've had, if only he dared give in to his feelings for her as she did for him.

If only he had the courage to accept them.

When he draws away, it feels somehow as though it's both been hours and seconds. A kiss both too long and not possibly long enough. He hovers close enough that she hears him whisper under his breath: "You deserve better. More. Forget all this, please."

Shrike shoves him away with such force he stumbles backward. The expression on his face is nothing short of desperate, a pleading sense of both longing and despair.

She can't stand it. Any of this.

"Now?! Now of all times is when you decide to act selfless?!" Her voice is broken, heavy with furious heartache. "You can't expect me to forget all this! You… You just can't!"

He only shakes his head, eyes narrowed in a wince. "You have to, Shrike. It's the only way. This can't happen between us. You'll get over this, I know you will."

The urge to scream at him rises, but she bites it all back just as she does with the bile rising in her throat. "Why? Why couldn't you have just done nothing?! You can't just take me into your arms like I'm the most important thing in the world and expect me to _forget it!_ "

Her eyesight clouds with the tears relentlessly pooling in the corners of her eyes. No matter how hard she tries, they merely reform as quickly as she wipes them away.

"You wanted to hurt me like this, didn't you. You enjoyed this." The words fall from her lips like the shards of her broken heart itself.

She knows it's not true as soon as she says it, but she can't bring herself to care. He's said more than his fair share of barbed lies tonight, the least he can do is suffer some of her own.

He winces painfully, and she can see assurances rushing to form at the tip of his tongue… only for him to swallow them all down before any can escape. His silence is as damning as the kiss he just forced upon her was. He makes no attempt to argue. No attempt to console or comfort her.

It only makes her want to fight all the more. She wants to argue, tell him he's wrong, that it doesn't matter what she deserves, she only cares for what she _wants_. Even after the insults, even after the biting words, even after all the vitriol and hurt, she wants what they could've been.

Because damn if there was only one truth told tonight, that kiss was it. An apology delivered straight to her lips, conveying more in action than words ever possibly could. Remorse, anguish, selfishness, despair…

...Adoration. Affection. _Care_.

She knows he fears a relationship between them would only end in demise. If not in body, then in spirit. If not her, then him. He'd grind her up, selfishly eat away at the light in her until nothing but emptiness remains. She'd make him soft, get him killed protecting the one thing he can't bear to see harmed.

This is him being merciful, saving her before he has the chance to ruin her himself.

All it does is make her feel worthless. Unwanted. When the man who takes anything and everything he wants lets her go, how can she feel anything more?

She can't bear it any longer.

Shrike whirls on her heel, no longer standing to suffer in his presence. Her back burns from the gaze she feels boring into it, but he makes not a move to stop her.

Any chance to fix this has been well and truly shattered.

It's over, and all that's left is to dig the shards from their chests and move forward.

She gets to the door, and as her hand rests on the edge, words come to her tongue unbidden. They sting and burn, their sole purpose only to hurt, but she cares not.

If she has to suffer, then he does too.

She turns her head to the side, just enough to flash him the glimpse of a single, baleful eye. "You're just upset because you know you can't kill me, can't get rid of me like you do every other _inconvenient_ pawn that doesn't fall in line."

His lips press into a thin line, a child desperately holding in words they'd only regret if spoken aloud.

"You want me. You don't _want_ to want me, but you do and that _terrifies_ you. All you want is to be able to kill me when you need to, not like a repeat of this morning. You want to be able to kill me just like you did with Robin when _she_ was with you "

A bolt of shock flashed through his eyes, jaw falling slack in genuine surprise. This time he can't catch the words in time. " _That is n-_ "

"I don't want to hear it." Shrike cuts him off ruthlessly. "I know I'm right. These renegade feelings of yours will hinder you every step of the way, stay your hand whenever you want to get rid of me. It'll drive you insane and I will _relish_ it the entire time."

"For once in your life, you care about someone and it will _ruin_ you." She turns to face him, keeping one hand on the door. "And you'll never be rid of me. I'll be here the entire time, watching it eat you alive."

Her venomous glare tears into him without mercy, drinking in his despair, the sweetest of poisons she hopes will kill her heart once and for all. "You should've killed me when you had the chance, Croc. You'll wish you had, _I'll make sure of it._ "

Crocodile opens his mouth to say something, but this time he is well and truly speechless. The already dulled look in his eyes only glazes over more as he looks away, down at the floor in what she can only assume is guilt.

' _Good.'_

His chest heaves from the massive sigh he takes, though not a single sound more comes from him.

It's over.

There's a sudden scrabbling of claws as Phoebe dashes forward with a look on her scaly face that might've been construed as pleading.

Shrike cares naught for it, only filled with more of that acidic disdain. "You made your choice. You chose _him_."

She takes that final step forward before slamming the door shut with such force that the wood about the frame cracks. A thump of something small thuds into it not even a half-second later.

She feels nothing.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Hope some of the payback she got helped soothe some of that ache from last chapter. The extra angst probably doesn't help though.


	9. Butcherbird

**Chapter Summary:** The Butcher never truly went away, she's merely been sleeping, waiting for the perfect chance to wake and rage, rage, rage at the world. All Shrike has left to do is embrace it.

 **Author Notes:** Sorry, this took a long time. Life got busy.

* * *

If only the feeling of nothingness had stayed.

That, Shrike can handle just fine. She'd gotten used to not feeling much. To being _empty._ Becoming the Butcher had demanded nearly everything from her; dues that no one else had been willing to make.

No one else but _her_.

She'd thrown all the bits and pieces that'd made her human onto the Butcher's pyre, each and every one of them a sacrifice made willingly. She'd thought it noble at the time, grand offerings made for the greater good despite the monster it turned her into. The hurt of losing those pieces of herself, and of the guilt that'd followed… well, it all went away eventually.

The only thing left behind was the scar where her humanity had been, and a dull ache that throbbed when thinking of memories past.

Only... this new life tore all that scar tissue away. Everything's come back to her fresh and raw, like a reopened wound. Though as much as it hurt at first, the following days filled with warmth and comfort unburied those cast-aside feelings from the ash. They lulled the Butcher and all her ceaseless hunger into the deepest of slumbers, leaving Shrike with a sense of peace she never thought she'd ever feel again. She relearned how to smile and laugh, how not to live in constant worry.

She remembered what it meant to live and not just _survive_.

But it all came at a price.

For that sense of security bred in her a complacency.

It made her more trusting, more welcoming of those around her to the parts she'd tried so very hard to leave buried. It left her the worst thing she could ever possibly be, something she swore to never let happen again: vulnerable.

Vulnerable and so very, very _stupid_.

The door to Crocodile's office slams shut with a shuddering crack. A quiet thud of something small sounds immediately after, but any sympathy Shrike would've felt for the culprit died the moment they chose to side with _him_.

" _You made your choice."_

The words still ring in her ears, coherence lost with each echo. She doesn't even remember who they'd been meant for, though she'd uttered them only a moment prior. Both of them have hurt her in a way she can't even begin to find the words to describe. Maybe not ever.

All because she made a mistake. The mistake of _trust_.

Shrike flies through the hall and down the stairs with all the subtlety of a raging bull. The few boards she lands on shudder and groan beneath the force of her heels, her steps so heavy they might've cracked had she not been barefoot.

But the stinging pain surging up from her soles goes unnoticed. She doesn't even register the throbbing ache of her scuffed knees, the scabs there having long since cracked. The rage has blinded her to all but one thing: blood.

Any rational thought the dares blossom in her mind merely burns up in the fury smoldering white hot beneath her breast. It's a fire only that iron tang can quench, so powerful she wants nothing more than to sink her teeth into the throat of whoever dares cross her path first. Every last emotion that isn't some flavor of anger or hate turns to ash in the heat of that rage.

Empathy has no place in her heart this evening. Not when the vessel's been torn asunder, hemorrhaging the precious little motes of warmth and happiness it'd sheltered this past year. Now, it harbors nothing but the animalistic panic and rage that follow a fresh wound: painful enough to draw forth the adrenaline, but not enough to let her succumb to the numbing bliss of shock.

It's too familiar for that. The agony of betrayal is something she knows far too well.

And she had to go and be stupid enough to let it happen again.

' _NO! HE did this. This is HIS doing!'_

The voice in her head howls in fury, maddened she'd even think to blame herself as much as she knows she was a fool to have given him the chance in the first place.

' _That coward! That BASTARD!'_

It feeds on all the bloodthirst festering within, growing louder and louder, more and more bestial with each and every word.

' _How DARE he?!'_

Until it begins to sound less like her-

' _Has he forgotten WHO I AM?!'_

-and more like... someone else.

' _HE WILL REGRET THIS!'_

A dear, old friend. A voice she hasn't heard from in months.

' _I'll MAKE SURE OF IT!'_

The door to Shrike's room just about explodes off its hinges as she kicks it in with a feral roar. It swings on its hinges and impacts against the wall with a thundering crash loud enough to wake the whole ship over.

Not that she cares for the racket she's making. The late hour is lost on her, just as her concern is for disturbing the others. There's no point to, not when it's clear not a single one of them cares for _her_. No one on this ship does. No one on this ship _wants_ to. The events of today have made that more than clear. She now knows for sure exactly where she stands: an unwillingly tolerated liability; some creature that's somehow both vile temptress and untameable animal depending upon who you ask.

Unwanted, unlovable, and a danger to everyone around her. How foolish to think she could ever be anything else. How foolish to think that the Butcher could ever truly be made to go away and let her live a life among others.

No, the Butcher will never go away. The trauma of her years starving and sick on the streets, and of the bloodshed she wrought, can never be undone. She knows that now, knows that even with food and comfort the beast born from that suffering can only be lulled to sleep. It will never truly be slain, merely lying in wait for the right time to reawaken and rage that animalistic hatred of the world until it physically can't a second longer.

All this time the Butcher's merely been sleeping, but now? Now it's awake, and it's _fucking pissed._

The only choice she has left is to embrace it.

Shrike strides into the dark of her room with purpose, not even bothering to flick on the light. She knows exactly what to grab from where, and the meager light streaming in from the hall is more than enough to not crash into what little furniture she has.

Besides, it's not like she's planning to stay long.

There's precious little night left before the dawn. What time she has left to hunt dwindles, a candle wick just about burned down to the wax. She has to do this _now_ , while the ruffians and criminals of the night still prowl the streets; people that deserve The Butcher's specific brand of justice.

Because what Shrike needs right now -what the Butcher demands right now- is a fight. A _damn_ good fight. The kind that doesn't end until people are spitting blood, noses crumpled and broken with limbs left just the same.

The hunt is on, and she can't begin putting the pieces of herself back together until it's over.

But even as blinded by the Butcher's bloodthirst she is, Shrike knows how crazy it'd be to start a fight on this ship. She doesn't trust herself- _the Butcher_ -enough to be able to hold back the killing intent she can feel vibrating along her limbs. If it came down to blood, the crew would probably turn on her gladly, finally given the justification for getting rid of the rabid stray always biting at them every turn. They don't have the same reservations about hurting her like their captain does and, hell, even though _he_ might not able to do it himself, that's not to say he wouldn't stand by and let someone else do his shameful business for him.

Just like the coward he is.

Even Daz would join in. As much as he acts like he cares for her development and wellbeing, she knows it's all an act meant to appease Cro- _the captain_. She just knows it. Daring to hope otherwise would only be yet another foolish mistake, and she's made enough of those already.

' _What's the matter, kitty? Finally bit off more than you can chew? That's too bad.'_ She can hear the mocking cadence in his voice already, feel his bladed fingers bite into her throat…

Except, a quiet murmur in her head says otherwise. The one that keeps trying in vain to make her remember what he said today, both during their scuffle and when she'd been eavesdropping.

" _You're not a waste of time, Shrike. You never have been."_

 _"If you do want what's best for her... then end this now. You aren't it."_

Try as it might to surface from beneath the maelstrom whirling within her, it never finds a foothold. That voice of reason goes unheard, completely deafened by the hurt howling within her demanding more and more of itself until there's nothing left _but_ it. She _wants_ to hurt, it tells her. She _wants_ to rage. Anything that makes her feel otherwise is a dirty lie, and she's been lied to enough already.

Whatever the anger and hurt say to her is the closest thing to the truth she's going to get.

The only truth she cares to believe right now, anyway.

...Regardless, as sour as her relationships with the rest of the crew are, they aren't the ones who've wronged her this night. Hurting them won't bring the satisfaction the Butcher craves.

And the one who _did_ hurt her?

Shrike's dresser thuds against the wall as she aggressively yanks the top drawer open. Just _thinking_ of him stokes the bitter hatred burning within, feeds her defiance of what cruel game he's played upon her. It has her digging through her clothing with an almost childish aggression, garments going flying over her shoulder or dropping to the floor until she finds what she's looking for.

Even as she pulls on her underwear, such an innocuous task, she can't stop thinking of how badly she wants to see him suffer the same as he's done to her. She steps into her socks like she's planting a foot on his neck. Imagines the snapping of her bra straps as her _breaking_ it. Or, and better even, his fingers. Broken fingers won't kill, and she'd be able to drink in the pain in his features for days to co-

Her gut wrenches.

Nausea rises in her stomach. Coats the back of her tongue in bile. Her heart wrenches, too, as if she's witnessed something sickening.

Something about imagining his pained face, scar wrinkling about his nose as his dark eyes wince from the pain…

' _NO!'_ Shrike wants to see that bastard _suffer_ , dammit. Wants to see him hurting and tired and broken, suffering in the same anguish he's forced upon her!

...The only reason she doesn't do it right now is because he'd only be grateful for the pain, anyway! Physical retribution would only make him feel all the more absolved of the suffering he's wrought upon her. Just as he attempted to let her strike him, thinking that letting her hit him would make all this suddenly better. But she'd realized it for the dirty trick it was, and her fist had stopped just short of crumping his nose and delivering the absolution he so desperately desires.

 _That's_ why she doesn't march upstairs and just finish this. That.

And _only_ that.

She'll never give him the satisfaction! Too much of a coward to get rid of her, too much of a coward to accept her, he needs to suffer a personalized torment just for him: her very existence. The unwanted object of his affections and desires, always present, ever there, close enough to touch and take and all the more agonizing because of it.

Just, _her_.

But that doesn't solve her immediate problem. Someone needs to pay. The Butcher _demands_ it. For now, she'll just have to find different prey… someone _else_ that deserves the Butcher's wrath.

And lucky for her, she knows exactly how to get what she wants. In a city like this? And at this time of night? It's almost _too_ easy. All it'll take will be drawing the right kind of attention… as much as the idea fills her with disgust as soon as she dares think it.

There's something specific she has in mind, a little outfit she's employed more than once to great success. It's the one surefire bait she knows that'll guarantee a bite. A get-up that belies the danger just waiting for fingers to reach out and touch the seemingly defenseless woman, theirs for the taking…

She nearly gags. Just thinking about being touched that way ever again-by _anyone_ -makes her skin crawl.

...and also makes her forget all about the middlemost drawer. How it sits a bit looser on its rails than the others.

Shrike gives it an aggressive pull, same as with the top one, only for it to come clean out of the dresser entirely. She goes stumbling backward, the same panic striking her as when one tips too far back in a chair, and while the drawer isn't exactly heavy, the unexpected weight is far too much and too sudden to brace against.

It goes plummeting to the floor.

...But not without first scraping down the front of her shin… and landing square on top of her unprotected foot.

Because _of course_ it does.

" _FUCK!"_ Her curse echoes about the narrow walls of the cabin, sounding more like a snarl than a coherent word. It's loud and almost feral, just as the frustrated, pained howl that chases it is. If anyone had come to investigate the racket she'd been making, just hearing that alone would have sent them running.

All except maybe Daz, the only one of the crew not wary of her and her aggression. But if he's listening, he doesn't bother to make it known.

Some fights just aren't worth the trouble. For all he knows, she's merely upset Crocodile took his advice and ended what was blossoming between them before it fully took root.

And not for the cruelty and cowardice with which he went about doing it. Because, surely, he isn't so arrogant as to infuriate an invisible assassin who lives but a few floors below where he sleeps. _Surely_.

Meanwhile, Shrike stamps the ground in fury, grinding her teeth as she works through the pain radiating from calf to foot. If that alone wasn't enough, the clothing that'd been stored within had exploded outward upon impact, adding only insult to injury. They now lay strewn about in a haphazard pile at her feet.

Of course, this would happen. Right when she has neither the time nor patience for such bullshit. Apparently, she hasn't endured enough this evening already.

A frustrated growl rumbles out her throat as she drops to her haunches and rifles through the pile for the pieces she needs. Her knees-still awfully tender-throb from the position, but the pain is merely more fuel for the rage burning a hole in her chest. She lets it fan that flame even as she feels her sense of control turning to ash in its wake.

It's only a minor price to pay. Control requires a sense of calm she cannot afford right now. Calm is the enemy. Calm will only let the fire sputter and die, and right now that fire is the only thing keeping the Butcher awake and raging.

For the Butcher is what's keeping the darkness at bay, the light of its flames purging the leeching shadows of despair and abandonment. Thoughts that make her want to crash to her knees in a mess of tears and end it all right here and now.

But so long as the fire burns, she refuses. She'll keep her head above the tide of darkness threatening to drown her, no matter what it takes. For enough tears have been wasted on _him_ already, and he hadn't deserved even a single drop in the first place.

Shrike moves quickly now, her movements aggressive and sloppy. Clothing flies over her shoulders as she tears through the pile looking for the pieces she needs. It's a mess future her will have to deal with. When it's _safe_ to be calm again. Right now, the only care she has is for her immediate well-being, and _that_ involves satiating the Butcher enough to lull her back to sleep.

Luckily, she finds everything she needs after only a minute or so, gathering up the pieces needed for an ensemble she knows all too well.

And just like every other time she's had to dig it out, she struggles not to roll her eyes at the sight of it. Unfortunately for her, the damn thing isn't going to wear itself.

The leggings come first, and they take longer to shimmy into than they took to find. She'd bought them before putting on muscle, having been a perfect fit for her smaller, leaner self. Now though, the black fabric hugs too tight for comfort, and the silvery panels running up the inseam into her crotch and glutes are the opposite of subtle. The waistband even sits low enough on her hips to reveal where her hips begin to dip into that 'v', too.

Her top is next, not as bad but not something she'd consciously wear herself. She pulls the too-small tank on over her sports bra next, the white, ribbed garment exposing a bit of her navel and hip bones. It's the latter she finds more uncomfortable, just as with the leggings themselves. She's quite used to lounging about the ship without wearing anything over her sports bra or bindings. The lack of… assets… up top does more than enough to ward off wandering eyes from the crew.

Except _his_ apparently.

 _"You are quite attractive, Shrike, I can assure you of that." His deep voice rumbles, knuckles absentmindedly stroking her che-_

She cuts _that_ train of thought off with all the subtlety of a headsman's axe. What _he_ thinks doesn't matter. Not anymore and never will it ever again.

Except... she does kind of what to see him squirm. She can already imagine the look on his face, eyes immediately darting away as he does everything he can to _not_ look at her, to not admire the figure of a woman he wants more than anything to _not_ desire...

The thought brings a wicked grin to her face. Maybe she'll wear stuff like this more often, then. Just to see him writhe like the worm he is.

Sure enough, upon walking over to the standing mirror propped in the corner, she can't help but flush at what she sees; and, if _she_ can't, he most certainly will too. It's the kind of style that's currently in vogue, what with the exposed midriff and bottoms riding low enough to tease the dip of her hips. This is the type of outfit she's seen women far more confident than her posing in on their wanted posters, and while Shrike would never shame anyone for dressing this way, it's just not… her.

Altogether, it's well and truly uncomfortable, revealing far more than she'd prefer and painting her in an overtly sexual light that makes her feel almost nude. At least it's not so tight as to restrict her range of movement, though.

Needless to say, she herself despises it, and its pieces would've long been tossed in the trash by now if she hadn't found a use for them. Her entire existence thus far has been about _not_ drawing any kind of attention to herself, and this get-up does exactly that.

In fact, she hates having to go down the 'seduction' route at all for that exact reason, though she can't fault how brainlessly effective it is. Men-and the occasional women-all of a sudden find they have looser lips and more permissive boundaries when she's dressed this way. When paired with the right demeanor, usually a hint of coy demure, it's the perfect bait to coax those of weak morals and even weaker inhibitions right into her claws.

If only it didn't remind her of those whose hands have already been on her, and of all the little pieces they've stolen away.

But it's a small price to pay so long as it lures out her prey. Targets she can beat to paste without feeling bad about. Men who think they can use and cast aside whoever they want without consequence.

Users.

Liars.

Cowards.

A crowd forms in her mind, silhouettes of potential targets. At least one of them has a distinct face, his scar as familiar as the back of her hand. The realization makes a growl rumble in her throat.

He'll get his comeuppance in time, and with dividends too.

Then, another thought crosses her mind, entirely unbidden and unwelcome as soon as she realizes what it is. What if… what if she took the outfit out for _real?_ How would he react if she brought someone _else_ back to the ship for the night? Forced to hear her cries echoi-' _ABSOLUTELY NOT.'_

The very thought nearly makes her retch right then and there. Just thinking of someone else's hands on her… Hell, she would prefer never being touched that way ever again for so long as she lives.

Too many have taken too much from her already. No more.

No. More.

...Yet a part of her fights to be made known, its quiet little whispers dangerous in her ears.

It's that humiliating side of her that swoons and sighs upon remembering the fiery heat of his hand on the small of her back-' _stop'_ -the way he cupped her face so warmly with a smile equally so-' _please'_ -how that was the first time she enjoyed being touched-' _stop!'_ -and actually _wanted_ mor-"STOP! _"_

Her command cuts through the silence, shattering it like glass beneath her heel. The sound of it bounces and echoes about the walls though she doesn't consciously hear it. She's too deafened by the war inside her own head, a battle waged against her own traitorous heart and feelings.

A terse growl rumbles through her teeth. Her mind races, imagining each of those memories as photographs being burned as she aggressively demands the insidious feelings lurking beneath her breast to leave her. Leave her now and never, _ever_ return. She has no use for them. Anything that still _feels_ something for him besides contempt or scorn is nothing more than a cancerous growth that needs to be excised.

The only feeling he deserves from her is her _wrath_.

She forces herself instead to think of how he hurt her, of his lies and cowardice. Anything to remind her stupid heart of just how much she should _hate_ him. Her thoughts go to his painful words and callous glares, of how he called her a ' _stray'_ and nothing more than a ' _useful body'_. To how he pushed her boundaries further and further until she was forced to put a stop to something he himself was too much of a coward to do himself.

 _That_ is all she cares to think about regarding him. _That_ is all that she _should_ think about regarding him… Even as much as a tiny part of her still dares to crave the few moments of affection he's lavished upon her.

...She needs to get out of here. The flame is beginning to die, her wrath started to be doused the little droplets of despair.

She needs to hunt. The _Butcher_ needs to hunt.

Shrike strides back over to the dresser now, having wasted enough time warring with herself in the darkness of this bedroom.

Luckily, the rest of her preparations go far less… explosively, than before. Though her heart continues to burn, still incensed from pain both emotional and physical, a rather eerie calm has settled over her. It has her moving with a controlled purpose, calmly seeking out the last few things she needs before heading out and into the night.

Her knives and holsters she finds safely tucked away in the bottommost drawer. Thanks to the noble sacrifice of its middle sibling, it hadn't been subjected to her destructive fury. She puts far too much pride and care into her tools' maintenance for everything to have been destroyed in one careless moment of aggression.

Though that would've been just like her, wouldn't it? A bitter, scorned woman burning everything down around her just to make sure not a single speck of filth remains.

Even as much as the fire burns her own flesh, too.

...The knife holsters.

She pulls them on with a familiarity that speaks of years of practice, though in actuality she's only owned them for just short of a year. Strapping each one about her figure-thighs, waist, biceps, and ever her calves-has been a part of her pre-mission ritual ever since officially starting work for Croc-' _the captain'._

His name no longer deserves a place in her mind.

The last of her holsters come on with ease. She's grown so accustomed to wearing them, in fact, that _not_ having them on while ashore now leaves her feeling almost naked. Something about being armed to the teeth brings a level of comforting security that nothing else can quite compare to. An arsenal for any situation, the perfect tool for any job just a short reach away. Especially as each of her blades- eight in total -all vary in shape and length.

You never know what might happen out there. Just because she's looking for a brawl doesn't mean she shouldn't be prepared in case things take a turn for the lethal. Even so, she rather hopes it doesn't.

Dead men can't learn their lesson.

But they _also_ won't approach her looking so blatantly armed and ready for a fight. She needs to look more harmless. _Helpless._ This is a song and dance she knows all too well.

Shrike bends at the waist, quickly snatching up the hoodie at her feet before pulling it on over her head. It's a rich, navy colored garment with white, fluffy trim and lining. Slightly baggy in the tummy and arms, it's perfect to hide the danger strapped about her body. The added protection against the night's chill will be more than appreciated, too.

There's not much to worry about it detracting from the _allure_ of her trap, either. The 'goods' up top aren't the kind salacious men with loose morals go for anyway, and her lower body is still more than uncomfortably accentuated.

The only thing left is her boots, and then she's finally free to get the hell out of her and prowl the streets. Knee-high and constructed of sturdy, blackened leather, they perfectly conceal the stilettos holstered about her calves without making it too difficult to retrieve them. One quick dip and she can have one out of their sheath and sailing through the air before her prey can even realize what's happening.

This is a little trick she knows all too well from experience, and a rather vivid memory crosses into her mind at the thought.

 _A nasty storm's rolled in, leaving them landlocked until morning. But, rather than spending it miserably aboard the ship, Daz somehow managed to convince the captain to spend it in one of the nice taverns ashore. Something about it being good for the crew's morale._

 _Though the fact that his newest toy has brought him quite a surprise may also have something to do with his unexpectedly tolerable mood. She's proving herself to be quite the lucrative investment._

 _Yet, she sits alone, staring sourly down into her cup. A heavy sigh pushes past her lips as another round of raucous laughter sounds from the crew's table. They're playing a game of dice she's never heard of before, and the mere thought of asking them to teach her puts her on edge._

 _Their laughter would immediately die, replaced only with awkward silence. Just like the first, and last, time she asked. They'd give it a few goes, but the hushed whispers around her told her how they really feel about her. An unwelcome intruder sucking all the fun out the air._

 _She knows not to bother trying again._

 _The only other person that at least tries to talk to her has opted to stay on the ship tonight. Dr. Ellia mentioned she'd like a peaceful night, and that it'll give her plenty of time to work on replenishing the medicine stores._

 _Daz and the captain, meanwhile, have their own booth separate from everyone else. They too have their own dour expressions, though they're born of concentration rather than loneliness. The stack of trade documents and letters before them-potent blackmail dutifully stolen by her this morning-is more massive than Crocodile had anticipated. They'll have plenty to work through before the storm eases up._

 _Meaning, Shrike's only company tonight will be her cups and the liquid within them: the strongest, cheapest booze her bonus from today can buy. She's never been one for the fancy stuff. Whatever gets her buzzed the fastest is good enough for her._

 _And yet, her second cup's barely been touched. Something else has caught her eye instead, something the others have been too preoccupied to notice._

 _The waitress._

 _A rather warm looking woman, looking to be in her mid-twenties or so, walks past the bar where Shrike's sitting. There's a little sashay in her hips as she does so, outshone only by the overly saccharine smile pulling at her lips._

 _And by the glint of the knife tucked beneath her apron._

 _Though she tries to move gracefully, her limbs move with a certain stiffness. She knocks a glass over with a shaking hand only to quickly laugh and brush it off as being clumsy. The men laugh, too, and ask for another round to which she hurries off to fetch._

 _But the expression on her face contorts the very second she turns away. Shrike knows the aura radiating off the woman as familiar as the one she'd had mere months ago: barely restrained hatred._

 _Someone isn't happy too have such guests in her establishment this evening._

 _Shrike watches her over the rim of her glass, yellow irises tracking her as minutely as a starving predator's. This woman plans to attack one of them, that much is obvious. Who, though, is another question entirely._

 _Luckily, it's one that's answered sooner, rather than later._

' _...She can't really be that stupid, can she?' Shrike's brows raise a tad, watching as the waitress saunters over to the table where Daz and Croc sit. Apparently, she is._

 _For as she sweetly asks the two men whether she can get them anything else, Shrike watches with rapt attention as her slim fingers slip beneath her heavy, ale-stained apron. Neither of the men give her much attention besides shooing her away, completely unaware. How very like them to overlook the danger such an innocuous person could possess. That's a lesson they should've learned well enough the night fate brought the three of them together._

 _Such arrogance. Shrike shakes her head, already working out in her mind how exactly to deal with this situation._

 _The waitress hesitates for but a second, Shrike sees the tendons in her wrist tense as her knuckles squeeze about the knife handle. She hovers at their tableside for a few seconds too long, something Daz would've picked up on had he not been a bit flushed in the cheeks. And Croc is both too busy and too arrogant to give her a second glance._

 _Another second passes._

 _And then one more._

 _Before the woman finally finds the courage to strike._

 _She draws forth the knife with a shaky roar, raising it high into the air as the nicked blade poorly reflects the light. All it does is reveal just how much of an amateur she is at this whole 'killing' business. The last thing you want to do before taking someone by surprise is make a whole 'lotta noise._

 _Daz starts at the commotion, though it takes a moment for him to register what's happening, and even a few more at that to catch up. He's been pretty deep in the barrel this evening, now quite a bit soused. Trouble hadn't been expected tonight, not in a town as far away from a Marine outpost as this. These places tend to sympathize with pirates more than not._

 _Clearly, several mistakes have been made._

 _Crocodile doesn't even move, and from this position Shrike can't see the expression on his face. It should infuriate her-so arrogant as to not even turn a cheek towards someone trying to kill you?-yet all it does is spark in her a terror._

 _As much as she despises him, she isn't going to let the only person who gave her a chance die right in front of her. Not if she can help it._

" _Damn you to hell!" The waitress yells right as she begins plunging the knife downward, aimed straight to pierce right into whatever heart Croc has. "Pirate scum-AHGH!"_

 _The knife falls to the floor as her shout cuts off into an agonized scream. For in the hand her weapon fell from now rests a new blade, only this one's buried itself deep in her palm. The stiletto pokes clean through the other side, its expertly honed edge glinting crimson with blood in the light._

 _She begins falling to her knees only for Daz to finally grab her. As sluggish as he is, it's mere child's play for him to wrench the woman's arm behind her back, forcing her to submit lest her break it right then and there. Shrike can't help but notice how there seems to be a pattern with how he goes about introducing himself to murderous women he's just met._

" _Fuck you! Fuck you pirates and everything you stand for!" The waitress spit-screams the words in between sucking gasps. The tone underlying each one is one Shrike knows all too well. She used to speak that way herself, so full of burning anger and hate. Bursting at the seams with it, aimed at the very world itself._

 _Now, she just feels tired._

" _Oh shit! What just...!" Ulrich's-a grizzled man already turning grey in his forties- voice carries over the commotion the woman's making, signaling that the men have finally taken notice. They've all since leaped out of their seats, or have tried to, at least. Ezra and Volt tripped clear over their bench, and the two idiots now lay sprawled out in a tipsy puddle on the floor._

" _Sir! Are you alright?"_

 _But Crocodile doesn't answer, not with words anyway. A low puff of laughter, sounds, his shoulders shifting as his head tilts slightly. It's only then that he turns, and Shrike can finally see his expression._

 _It's like a bolt of lightning straight to her heart._

 _He grins at her, an almost warm amusement lighting up those dark eyes of his. His scar wrinkles about his nose as he beams at her that smile that suddenly makes her uncomfortable in a way she can't describe. She's never felt this before._

" _My, just full of surprises today, aren't we?" His rich voice rumbles out, and Shrike's not sure if it's heavy from the whiskey he's been nursing all night or from whatever is causing that unusually warm expression on his face. It's alien on him and doesn't belong there in the slightest. "Seems like you're just_ trying _to impress now, aren't you, Ms. Butcher?"_

 _Being addressed finally snaps her out of whatever hazy fugue she'd fallen into, now making her painfully aware that every pair of eyes in the room are aimed only at her. Her cheeks flush red from the attention, both it and the praise still quite foreign to her. She can only stammer something about him having been fine-the knife being wet nor seastone-before casting her eyes back down to her glass._

 _Only now does she retract her hand back close to her body, fingers now stiff from being pointed outstretched from how she flicked her dagger. Her leg relaxes, too, the boot she whipped the knife from returning to rest back on the stool beneath her._

" _And yet you moved anyway, agent. Are you that concerned for my safety?"_

 _A quiet wave of laughter passes among the crew, knowing how humorous it is for someone like her to have attempted to save someone like him. It only makes her cheeks burn even hotter._

" _Just… doing my job." She mumbles, but it's more into her drink than to him. "T'was nothing, really."_

 _It was not nothing._

What was once such a cherished memory now brings Shrike nothing but regret and rage. To think that she'd ever do anything to save his life- whether it was actually in danger or not- fills her with disgust.

If only that knife had been seastone, if only it had been wet. If only she'd let it plunge straight down into his chest and kill him right then and there.

There's been a lot of "if-only's" in Shrike's life. Too many regrets.

And tonight might have been the biggest of them all.

Finally, though, her preparations are complete, and she can get the hell off this ship and into the refreshing night.

She turns to leave, eager to head out, only for her body to move out of habit. Right as she gets to the door, her hand reaches for a particular something propped against the wall. The texture of it's wrapped hilt familiar as the day it was given to her.

 _Given._

Shrike's hand snaps open like it's been burned, and a gasp whistles through her still-tender lips.

Her saber falls to the floor with a hollow clang.

No.

Not _her_ saber. _His_.

She just about kicks it away in disgust before stopping herself. Chasing after it would only be a waste of time and energy better saved for the hunt. It needs to be returned, lest he think he has any ulterior power over her. _All_ the 'gifts' need to be.

Later, though. She doesn't have the time to gather them all up right now, nor the energy. For now, the saber is a good enough start as any.

She leans down, bending at the waist to retrieve it. Yet, right as her fingers about touch it, they just… stop. They hover, just within reach, but move not a centimeter further.

' _Why?!'_

The sheath appears so inviting, as it always does, the dark leather supple and obviously well cared for. Its silver basket hilt, too, speaks wonders to the love and attention the weapon has received while in her care. The metal gleams so lustrously despite the low light streaming in from the hall.

But for some reason, she can't bring herself to touch it.

' _It's just a sword. It won't…'_

Even thinking about her fingers brushing against it preemptively fills her with a profound sense of dread.

As if… As if the idea of returning it is the nail in the coffin to all this. The final death knell to what… to what could have been.

A message that cannot be taken back.

"...Why? Why do I even care?!" Her murmur comes out quiet, strained from a pain clearly causing her great suffering. " _He_ ended this. It's over already! Done!"

She wills herself to anger, but what finally does spur her into motion only makes her hate herself all the more: a teardrop.

It falls, unbidden and unwelcome, a small blemish that soon stains the leather of the saber's sheath. Only to be joined by another.

And another.

And then more so still.

For as much as holding on to the blade would only be a victory for him- some small amount of power held over her- she's grown quite fond of having it at her side. Both for the protection it affords, and for what it's come to represent: a physical token of his affection.

Returning it would be the true end to all this. A disavowal of the truth lying there in her hands, the physical proof of his adoration in spite of all the lies he dared utter this night.

"Stupid. You stupid, _stupid_ girl." She hates how her voice sounds; bitter and angry and so very close to the edge of being broken. "Be mad! Be angry! Anything but… but _this_!"

It's only then that her fingers find the will to move. They dip, slowly and gently retrieving the fallen sword. Its weight feels so familiar in her grasp. The balance, too, is exactly as she remembers.

But it feels so foreign now. Detached from her, like the memory of a once dear friend now no longer on good terms.

The blade itself has realized it's been betrayed. Used for a time only to be cast aside when it became a liability.

How… appropriate, she muses. "That makes two of us, then."

The fire within her has died down a bit, fury making way for the smothering ash of sorrow. A profound sense of mourning suffuses her very being as she holds the once beloved blade across her open palms. The realization hurts far more than she can quite bear at the moment.

Rather than stoking the flames of her rage, it's only begun to stifle them.

Though it only makes sense that it was never meant to be. Such a graceful weapon should never have hung from the belt of a stray like herself.

Now it's time it found its way back to its original master. And she back out into the familiar embrace of the night. For as much as the sadness has begun to haunt her, there's enough flame left yet to keep the Butcher live and awake.

The trip back up topside is uneventful. If anyone had been awoken by her outburst-and she doesn't know how anyone _wouldn't_ have been-they don't dare come out to check as she pads up the stairway. The silence is broken only by the sound of her boots and the creaking of each wooden step.

She crests the landing of the final step to the top deck in only a few seconds, zero hesitation in her stride. Though she's really only been downstairs for half an hour at most, it feels as though hours have passed.

Each of those minutes had been precious time wasted, and she can't afford to lose a second more.

Hesitation is the enemy.

The silence abruptly shatters with a metallic clatter. She unceremoniously tosses the saber down the hall without pause, knowing that if she did she might not ever let it go. She doesn't even dare _look_ down that way, continuing the opposite direction as she hears the blade skid across the floor before coming to a halt at his door with an aggressive thud.

The bandage has been ripped off. Relinquishing the blade leaves her with a resounding sense of loss both freeing and demoralizing. From now on, it's just her and her own devices. Gear she's purchased herself using only appropriate compensation for work done. No gifts.

She won't allow him to have any sort of power over her again. Their relationship will purely be business from now on, though even she can't deny her presence is meant solely to torment him until the day either of them days.

There's no way he hadn't heard the noise. Even from his personal quarters-through the door on the other side of his office she's never been through-he would have heard it. But she doesn't stay long enough to find out, soon reaching the exterior door and bursting through it into the night.

The briskness of the air feels good on her flushed skin, her heated cheeks sighing in relief under the chill. The moonlight brings a certain serenity as well, the pale goddess herself hanging high in the sky, turning what should've been the night void into a rich navy.

It puts an unexpected pep in her step, and she strides across the deck with a renewed sense of purpose before dropping down and onto the dock in no time at all.

She lands on the balls of her feet with all the expertise of a trained acrobat, immediately sinking down to her haunches as the force disperses through her legs. Only the slightest of thuds sounds, quiet enough to pass off on the rocking of the ship's hull against the dock's mooring, or of the ropes going taut as the breeze goes by.

Even without her shroud activated she moves with an eerie silence, the muffled care of a cat on the prowl. The goal is to be seen, _eventually_ , but for now all that's needed is a little care and a light step.

Not a soul should have heard her.

That is, not unless she was actively being watched.


	10. Not A Single Bridge Left Unburned

**Chapter Summary:** The Butcher isn't the only predator that enjoys the night.

 **Author Notes:** Welcome back! Please enjoy!

* * *

Shrike strides along the dock, oddly light on her feet despite the profound sense of rage roiling within her. Rather than making her footfalls heavy, it carries her forward with a brisk determination, instead. She makes barely a sound. An experienced hunter on the prowl, through and through.

Her shroud isn't even needed. Not yet. Though the moon casts her pale light upon the world, Shrike's silhouette blends into the night with ease. She moves as the shadows do: a trick of the eye beneath the gentle starlight, her shape almost formless, shifting and subtle. This is her domain, and none can deny it.

Not a single living soul should've noticed her.

That is, not unless she was actively being watched.

For while her boots make only the slightest of sounds in the night air, the reverberations traveling down through the dock and into the water tell a different story entirely.

She pads along at a brisk trot, utterly oblivious to the strikingly bright eyes tracking her as she moves along. The water distorts her image, loosening her edges as shimmering oil on the surface, yet those eyes recognize her all the same.

How could they not? They saw her just this morning, so loyally at attention by her master's side.

Only now… Piercing irises glimmer in the submerged moonlight, looking almost like lures as they track her with all the patience of a natural-born predator. What they see blows his pupils wide in deadly curiosity.

Where could Crocodile's little assassin be heading off to at this time of night? And for what reason, he wonders. Especially if it has anything to do with the disturbance that drew him out here in the first place. All that yelling and thumping had been loud enough to wake even _him_ , and to say he's displeased to be up at such an hour would be an understatement.

But there is one silver lining to this inconvenience. Just one.

As ornery as the racket's made him, this situation has gifted him something quite delectable: _Her_.

The opportunity to get the jump on this brat.

After everything she's done to insult his pride and bring upon him such untold humiliation? This is only what she deserves. What he's most rightfully _owed_.

He can imagine it now: the terrified shriek that'll tear from her throat as he pounces on her. How her eyes will widen in horror before slamming shut, instincts commanding her to look away. To _submit_ to the inevitable and just accept her fate.

Oh _yes_ , revenge will be sweet. Sweeter than those infuriatingly saccharine smiles she was throwing about this morning. Sweeter than those mockingly gentle bouts of laughter, tinkling like bells or birdsong as she flitted about putting on a show for him.

It's about time this brat learned a lesson in humility… and that he is the _last_ one she should dare play around with. The thought teases him into a wicked grin, and a jet of bubbles puffs out his nose in amusement before he can stop himself.

The horror is immediate.

He flails, desperately trying to cover the rapidly rising bubbles with his body. They merely slide out from under him, as bubbles do, continuing their ascent to the surface as if he hadn't attempted to waylay them at all. He can only watch anxiously as they stream upwards, too fast now for him to catch.

Has he ruined his plan before it's even begun? Someone of her supposed caliber will definitely notice them; such an obvious sign of life lurking beneath the waves. A utilitarian bastard like Croc' would never keep her around otherwise. It doesn't matter what title he deigns to give her- attendant, aide, secretary -what she truly is is obvious to anyone: an assassin.

There's nothing that can be done about the situation now, though. The bubbles reach the surface in seconds, popping with a churning gurgle as soon as they touch air. A gun might as well have been fired.

Or so he thought.

For it somehow escapes Shrike's notice entirely. She continues onward, not a single pause in her step or look cast over her shoulder.

He can only stare up at her murky form in bewilderment. ' _How?!'_

For such an obvious sign of life to have not even turned her head? As honed as her survival instincts are, sharpened through years upon years, decades even, of living with only herself to watch her back, she simply just didn't notice.

Has everything about her skills… been a lie? Just a bluff?

He shakes his head. No, no. That's not it. He _knows_ she's more perceptive than this. There's no way she isn't. Someone like Crocodile would've ditched her long ago if she wasn't, as much as his obvious feelings for her would say otherwise. It's _because_ of her utility that she caught his eye in the first place. Even someone like him was able to figure that out, easy.

Is it a trap, then?

Or… something else?

He eyes her warily, suspiciously. It's clear she's wired up, that much is obvious. What with her rigid posture and strides both too long and quick to be casual. Except… he watches her a few steps more, to confirm.

Oh ho, she _is_ distracted! It's her gaze that tips him off. For while she stares straight ahead, eyes scrunched into a scowl, her focus is settled a million miles away. She sees without really _seeing_. Same as how her strides, so seemingly full of purpose, are taking her nowhere in particular.

Any other night, she would've long noticed him.

Tonight, though, it's clear her mind is elsewhere.

Elsewhere, and else _when_ , even. Whereabouts and whenabouts known only to her. If he could see inside, take a peek into the chaos swirling about her mind, even _he_ would be struck dumb by what he'd see.

For her mind is in places and times no one would ever think to consider.

It's suffering, languishing in her captain's office, still fighting a war against herself and against phantom lips and touches making her feel terrible and wonderful all at once.

It's enraged, an hour into the future, where her knuckles bleed as she fights down ruffians who thought they'd spotted an easy fuck but walked into the biggest mistake of their lives.

And then, it's filled with despair and regret, a year ago back at Vigo's estate, desperately telling herself to come back a different night to prevent herself all this pain and heartache.

Or wishing she were dead entirely.

She's everywhere and everywhen but right where she is, right now. A fact that's more than obvious now that he's seen through the false pretense of focus contorting her features.

How careless. All she's done is left herself an easy target, absolutely no idea as to the danger swimming beneath her very heels. Any other night, she'd have sensed him already.

Tonight is not that night, it seems.

For in the absence of any obvious danger, it appears she's written off the subtle noises around her as harmless. Each little change in the water lapping at the docks is only from the wind. Same as the snapping of the rigging going taut, or the hollow thunks of wood on wood as gangplanks shift against the pier.

All natural noises. All irrelevant distractions. All such foolish assumptions to make. Someone with such an illustrious role as Crocodile's personal assassin should have far more care than this.

Catching her will be all the sweeter for it.

He surfaces slowly, practically silent. What little noise his head makes as it breaches the surface is negligible, easily passed off as the wind stirring about the waves. Still, he waits a second, and then a few seconds more, holding off on his approach until he's doubly sure the sound escaped her notice, as slight as it was.

As expected, his prey strides forward none the wiser. She continues on just as oblivious as she was before. Only then does he take the time to approach, emboldened by the knowledge that the little birdie's mind truly has flown the nest. He draws up closer, slowly swimming forward careful not to make even a single sound. So close, even, that he practically swims right alongside her. She'd so obviously see him if she bothered to actually _look_.

But, no. Her eyes remain trained far ahead, both in time and in place.

This is the perfect opportunity for him to pounce, and yet… something stops him.

An iron tang strikes his senses. It's not as cloying as a major wound would be, certainly not enough to trigger his predatory instincts. Still, it _is_ enough to catch his attention. His nostrils flare from the stench now that he's closer, the source of it undeniably being her.

Yes, now that he's closer, he can see it too. Each step she takes is punctuated with a slight jerk, a certain stiffness. So slight, even, as to be imperceptible to all but the most observant eyes.

The brat is injured.

His eyes narrow, this revelation making him doubly curious. Now he _really_ must see where she's heading off to. Such a small woman going into the night, by herself, at this hour, with actively bleeding wounds?

She's only made herself a target, and recklessly at that.

As much as he'd like to trail her, though, there's no guarantee she'll stay along the water's edge. The sounds of the water shifting, even as he swims right alongside her, may have avoided her notice so far. But the sound of his feet on solid ground? Every step would sound her alarms as violently as if he roared right in her ears. Even as distracted as she is, she's not so careless as to not at least be passively scanning for signs of more sentient life. Sounds that'd trigger her warning bells, unlike the gentle lapping of the waves.

But the more he muses over his plan of attack, the more Shrike's determined strides quickly bear her away from him. He has to do this _now._ Before she turns away from the water and out of his strike range. He won't get another chance.

His cue to strike comes only seconds later: the shifting sound of her footfall. Right as she reaches the end of the jutting pier, her step changes from hollow wooden thud to that of the solid stone wharf.

'- _Now!'_

He dives. Deep down into the depths he plunges, the added distance between himself and the surface needed to build up the momentum needed to strike. A stream of bubbles follows as he does so, clinging to his arms and body only to quickly detach and rise back upward.

They surface with a violent churning, much louder than the quiet gurgle from before.

And this time, it doesn't escape her notice.

Shrike's step stutters at the sound, a little jump as the noise takes her by surprise. Shock washes over her features for but a half-second. Her eyes widen, brassy irises glinting in the moonlight, before redoubling into a suspicious scowl even deeper than the one that'd been etched there previously.

Below the waves, he ascends quickly, the surface rapidly drawing closer as he propels himself upward. Her wary frown hurtles into focus just the same, along with the image of her hand instinctively moving to grab something at her waist...

Too little, too late.

The water erupts before she fully realizes what's happening. Even with having seen the signs, it catches her mostly unaware. Her mind had still been parts elsewhere, leaving her with a reaction time far too sluggish to move away in time. All she can do is shriek as the seawater rains down upon her and douses the already slick pier.

The frigid downpour is a brutal reminder of the reality happening right here and now, tearing her out of her head with all the gentleness of an icicle lobotomy. It instantly soaks through her pitifully thin clothing, and the sudden cold seeping into her very bones would've made her gasp had she not already been startled to hell and back. She's left speechless. Even _sound_ has been left frozen in her throat.

Panic overrides each and every aspect of her training. All her efforts from the past year, of sharpening her senses and skills, just melts away. It all turns to sludge beneath the fear washing down her skin just as the water does.

Instinct takes over. The desperate kind.

Shrike flails as she scrambles to pull a blade free in defense, but her drenched clothing fights her at every turn. The wool lining of her jacket's greedily drunk up each drop of seawater, and the garment now hangs off her shoulders with the weight of a whole other her. She desperately bats and pulls at the fabric but the panic has her hands shaking too violently to properly cast it aside.

It's amusing, really. He merely watches her struggle all the while, a wide grin on his maw as he savors the panic-stricken expression on her face. Her eyes rapidly flicker between her sodden torso and his silhouette, now rapidly solidifying as the mist finally begins to clear and reveals her assailant to be-

Her voice _cracks_ beneath the sheer octave of her scream.

" _DEI-MOS!"_

She roars his name, staring at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed with her entire body so tense as to be quivering all over. But even as much as her screech would've cowed the rest of the crew, Deimos, meanwhile, can only bounce and grin in giddy excitement.

Grin as much as an utterly massive bananagator _can_ , anyway.

At the flip of a switch, the shock on her face abruptly changes. To say she looks outraged is only the start of it. Shrike looks downright _pissed_.

"What in the _HELL_ are you doing?! You scared the shit out of me!" She hisses at him with all the venom of a cornered pit viper, the tone curdling her words just as sour as the expression on her face.

But Deimos merely returns a hiss of his own, the sound crackling low and deep. Far deeper than little Phobos' will ever reach. In spite of his downright menacing appearance, the noise somehow only comes across as mirthful. Playful, even. Evidence of just how excited and proud he is to have finally turned the tables on Shrike and startle _her_ for once; what with the number of times her shroud has sent him nearly leaping overboard in surprise.

Giddy as he is, though, it's clear that Shrike is anything _but_. Sure, he seems to have spooked her pretty good. That _was_ his intention, but even so… He cocks his head to the side, giving her an inquisitive look as the anger fails to relax off her features. It can't have made her _this_ upset, could it?

But as he looks Shrike over, the woman continuing glaring at him with those ferociously narrowed eyes, irises glinting like sharpened slivers of bronze, there's no doubt that it has.

This is… unexpected. Does she really hate being startled this much? Though a bit hypocritical on her part, he now feels a bit guilty for frightening her so.

' _Too far?'_ He coos again in the absence of any response from her. The sheepish, inquisitive trill strikes a jarring contrast against the dozens of knife-sharp teeth lining his maw, each one several inches long. His is a maw big enough to swallow even someone of her size whole.

As if he ever would, though. Not her.

Who would give him all those deliciously accursed belly rubs then, if she were gone? As much as he finds even the fact he enjoys them to be so insulting- a proud beast like him turning to mush beneath her fingers? Humiliating! -never would he dream of going without them again. It's an indignity worth suffering, this girl, what with her wicked fingers and silent footsteps startling him every other day.

And a wicked temper, too, apparently. One he hasn't ever been at the mercy of.

"Do you have ANY idea what time it is? What made you think this was a good idea?!" She spits, pure acid coming from her lips. The infuriated glare she gives looks much the same as she sounds. Her citrine eyes, practically the same pale hue of his own, pierce into him with an expression she's never before aimed at him: rage.

His nostrils flare again, inhaling until his lungs just about burst. The smell of blood is stronger than ever.

Something is wrong. He may not be as smart as Phobos, but Deimos realizes it immediately. His little prank couldn't have caused this level fury, not when she's already smelling of raw wounds, and definitely not when it involves himself. In any other case, she would've been cooing and praising his sneakiness just as soon as the initial shock wore off.

Because, more than anything else about her, even as much as she tries so very hard to hide it: Deimos knows that Shrike is _kind_.

To him and Phobos at least. He's seen her hiss and snap at her crewmates, but to them, she's only ever given candied babytalk and warm smiles. This is the woman that joins him on deck in the middle of the night, when all the rest of the world sleeps. They bask in the moonlight together with little Phobos curled up in her lap as she murmurs secrets and stories only they will ever hear. Her eyes go glassy when she's like that, some scene in her mind haunting her while she confides in them with such terrible melancholy.

He doesn't fully understand the words she speaks, but he intuits their sentiment all the same.

Such awful sadness.

Shrike is a somber human, bittersweet in a way. She tries so hard to be tough, lashing out and picking fights when deep down she's filled with a sorrow and loneliness that makes even Deimos' reptilian heart ache. To he and Phobos both, she's ever only shown kindness and affection and, when alone, a gentle disposition that would've made any of the others do a double take.

But the woman before him now? Staring him down with eyes filled with hatred and rage? Her knuckles white, fist shaking as she grips a dagger tight enough to crack bone?

That iron tang tickles his sensitive snout once more, in the way that only the fresh kind can. What's more, judging by the puffy redness of her eyes, it's clear she's been crying; a look he's grown uncomfortably familiar with, those sleepless nights sometimes drawing from her tears no one else has ever seen.

Something is definitely wrong. _Very_ wrong.

Shrike needs help, and he wants to be it.

Deimos gives her a high whine. Though with his great lungs it sounds more like a growl than the sound of concern he intended. He takes a step closer in the hopes of reaching the poor girl with a gentle snout nuzzle.

But all it does is make Shrike roll her eyes with a scoff, and he stops mid-step. His tail swishes about anxiously, and even just the movement of the great appendage in the air is enough to disturb the water's surface. She huffs at him then, taking a step backward to reestablish the distance between them. Oh, how one little step hurts him so.

If Shrike were in a better mood, she'd be joking about how funny it is to see such a ferocious beast _pouting_ , of all things. Right now, though, she's much too angry to joke about anything. The displeasure radiating off her is palpable, even as she gives her knife a little twirl before roughly shoving it back into its holster and crossing her arms over her chest.

"What? Why are you out here? You better have a good reason for this." She snaps at him, words sharp enough to nearly make him flinch. The usual soft demeanor she usually addresses him with is conspicuously missing. It's left a cold void behind in its absence that rather makes him wish he hadn't gone through with this silly prank at all.

' _No! She needs help!'_ That's right! Wishing he were anywhere else right now is not the right way to think about this!

If he hadn't of jumped her, he wouldn't have realized she was in trouble. She shouldn't be out here so late and alone and smelling of blood. He needs to get her back to the ship where she belongs, protected by the crew and by Crocodile who he knows would fight the whole island off to keep her safe.

But first, he has to know why she's out here in the first place. Something dire must have happened to have driven her off the ship so recklessly.

He hisses at her gently, doing his best to imitate the soothing sounds she's made to him before; when _he's_ been upset, like when Phobos ate the rest of his treats. His own golden eyes inquisitively blink at her the same question she's just demanded of him. ' _Why are_ you _out here?'_

It doesn't work, of response she does deign to give him is anything but an answer. Instead, she merely scoffs at him, lip twitching as she huffs a noise of disgust.

"I don't have time for your games, Deimos. Go back to the ship."

That last word she punctuates with enough sharpness to make him cringe; a " _shhh_ " with enough edge to cut the very air, and an " _ip"_ as abrupt as a smack to the face. The command in it is undeniable, so very much like his master's.

And yet, it's somehow _colder_. Cruel, almost.

Never would Deimos have ever dreamt that Shrike, that melancholic woman so full of smiles for him, would ever make someone like _Crocodile_ look gentle in comparison.

But those golden irises continue glaring at him, like daggers piercing through his scales. Her boot taps impatiently against the wharf all the while, and each hollow clap nearly makes him flinch.

Deimos can't help but shrink backward beneath that glare. He, a massive beast that could easily swallow her whole, that any other human would've run from at first sight, retreating from _her_? A woman a third his size? Anyone else would've called it preposterous.

But to him, though, who's never before received from her such wrath, it's anything but. All he wants to do is swim away, hide from that glare until the kind Shrike with the soft eyes comes back with soothing apologies and gentle fingers.

But he can't. He knows he can't.

Not when it's obvious she's hurting and needs help. Even if he's not exactly the best shoulder to cry on- if he really even has them -he's the only one around right now to be it.

Whatever emotional hurt she'll inflict on him will only be temporary. This is just a pain he'll have to endure.

For her sake.

Rather than leave- as she clearly wishes him to do -he musters up all the courage he has to quickly take a step towards her, before she snaps at him again. He begins to dip his great head, aiming to nuzzle his snout into her torso as he knows she likes. A kiss, in a way, same as how she'd call his tail about her figure a hug.

Only, this is a different Shrike. The things that normally would have her bubbly and affectionate only seem to annoy her now.

"Ugh!" She makes another disgusted noise, hands shooting outward to catch his snout rather jarringly. Her palms press flat onto the tip to keep him from getting close. "Knock that shit off, _now_."

The gentle firmness with which she usually scolds him is nowhere to be heard. All that's left is equal parts frustration and scorn, and the look she glares up at him with conveys an annoyance that's downright aggressive.

"No, Deimos! Just, no! Get out of my way, I don't have time to play with you tonight!"

Shrike's tone hits him like a whap to the snout.

She sounds so… just so _bitter._ What's happened? ' _Why? Let me help, I want to help!'_

He presses his snout against her hands harder, dipping it slightly to angle his eyes closer. At this distance, the smell of blood is stronger, and he finally realizes the scent's origin as coming from the tops of her boots. ' _Leg injuries? Foolish girl! You need rest!'_

But she's not interested.

"Just be a good boy, and-"

All she does is attempt to push past him, taking the opportunity to deflect his snout away entirely so she can slip past.

"-head back to the ship!"

But, he doesn't budge.

Right as she attempts to move past, he angles to the side.

And his tail comes swinging around.

Deimos has long had issues recognizing his more… prodigious… size. Ever since he started to grow- _really_ grow -there's been a nigh endless slew of mishaps aboard the ship. Everything ranging from bruises to broken railings to even people flying overboard has been a common fact of life for those among the crew.

So when Shrike sees that veritable _wall_ of green tail rapidly advancing towards her, she knows she's in for a world of hurt. Her hands shoot up in some defensive instinct, but it's fruitless. Tissue paper might have been more of a help than her pitiful defense.

Girthy as a tree trunk, the massive appendage catches her hard enough to stop her dead in her tracks. She goes skidding backward before being lifted off her heels entirely, kept only upright by the fact she'd latched on rather than letting it bowl her right over.

Though he hadn't meant it to have been so forceful, his clumsiness, as always, has done far more harm than good. The impact of his tail squeezes from her a winded gasp as it catches across her entire torso, the size covering everything from chest to navel...

...With the brunt of it being taken by the area where her delicate, scar-tissue riddled lungs sit.

He freezes immediately, heart practically stopping as he realizes what he's done. The air is silent save for the subtle breeze and lapping of waves.

Exactly what he _doesn't_ want to hear.

She should be coughing, grunting, grumbling, _yelling_ at him what with how mad she's been. Silence from her is the worst possible thing after a hit like that.

He feels her twitch- a chest spasm -and that's all the sign he needs to move.

Shrike can't breathe.

He immediately moves to withdraw his tail, but she's latched onto it with a death grip. She's practically draped herself over it, arms wrapped over the top to grip into the sensitive underside while her chest twitches against the spines. Only the tips of her toes still touch the ground. Pulling away from her now would just shred her delicate skin- the ridge and scales on his tail brutally sharp at the edges- and send her crashing to her knees. Right now, another impact is the last thing she needs.

Especially with the smell of blood still faintly wafting from her boots.

But with them locked into this position, he can't see the look on her face- can't see her cheeks turning dark as she fights for air, the way her eyes glaze over as tears pool at the corners. Even as he awkwardly contorts into himself, all he can see of her is the back of her upper body rigidly clinging to him. Her face is turned slightly- he can see the hint of her chin, marred by an hours-old bruise revealed in the moonlight -but her hair obscures whatever expression she may have. The ashen strands fan over her face, damply clinging together like tendrils of pale lichen across his tail.

There's no way he can help her in this position, or at least gather her up safely to leap back up to the ship with and scratch for help. Pulling away isn't an option, though, not unless he wants to hurt her worse than he already has.

Gently, _gently_ , he dips to relax her to the ground. Her legs don't even attempt to lock as her feet touch down to terra firma, limply collapsing beneath themselves instead. He lowers her until he physically can go no further, his tail firmly squashed onto the ground with her pooled on her knees.

It's only then that she makes a sound. Just several seconds have passed at most, but time has passed like hours just waiting for that single wheeze to pierce the silence. The high and desperate sounds wrench his heart but the relief they bring is immeasurable. He rumbles at her tenderly as he feels her relax, almost melting across his tail as her chest eases the stranglehold on her lungs, and her fingers relax their grip on that sensitive patch underneath his tail.

The odds that she'd find one of the few spots on him missing scales- battle wounds from a nasty fight -were karmic, but the few moments of stinging discomfort were nothing compared to the agonizing guilt riddling him now.

He whines as he attempts to reach his snout to her, his thick body at odds with itself as he's forced to awkwardly contort himself inward. It's a tight fit, and his neck cranes painfully, but he manages a rather ungraceful nudge of the side of his maw against her temple. As much as he wants to take her and hop back on deck, moving her in this state might only make things worse. Nor does he dare roar for help. Knowing what enemies Crocodile has, even as close to the ship as they are he wouldn't dare make such a risky move when she's currently unable to defend herself.

All he can do is sit and wait. And remember. He can't help but think of the first time this happened, some many months ago…

She'd been so small and frail then, only a few weeks out from when she'd first joined them. Still so distrustful of everyone around her, she'd taken to scuttling about the ship like some sort of stowaway, seen only when she'd allowed it.

A rarity to all the crew… Except for the gators.

He still remembers when those hauntingly golden eyes first met his, almost the same hue if not even a bit paler. They'd popped wide full of wonder, definitely not the reaction of screaming and running away others usually have. Even so, he paid her no mind then. Just as with the others, so long as he wasn't bothered, she was safe from his temper.

But she'd had other plans. The naive girl- so hurt by other people as to think animals faultless -had dared approach him down in the hold. His _lair_.

Only, with her wary disposition, she'd had that little trick of hers turned on to slip past anyone that might've attempted to warn her away. Even as clever and wily as she is, the poor girl hadn't exactly thought of the consequences of sneaking up and suddenly appearing before a beast as ornery and territorial as he is.

In the confines of the hold, his tail had swatted her right into the hull in his startled backpedal. It wasn't until she'd been rushed off by a rather annoyed Daz that Deimos truly realized what'd happened, and noticed the carve of meat she'd stolen from the kitchen for him. It'd fallen to the floor in the scuffle, still wrapped in the butcher paper faintly smelling of her natural scent.

No one had scolded him, of course. Why would they? Shrike had been the fool to approach the massive, unquestionably dangerous bananagator in his lair. Crocodile had given him a minor talking to- " _Don't eat her, at least. She's useful."_ -and his words seem to callous towards her compared to the obvious affection he has for her now.

Funny enough, the only lesson Shrike learned from the incident was not to startle him. It did absolutely nothing to scare her away from him at all. Hell, she came back down not even a full day later, sneaking out of her sickbed to find him once more. She'd been smart enough to _knock_ that time, at least, but as soon as she made her presence known, she'd trotted in like nothing had even happened. Little Phobos had even been with her, following right on her heels looking up at her like she was the most interesting thing in the world.

And in a way, she kind of was: the sickly girl completely unafraid of the beast that almost killed her, there to reassure _him_ , of all things.

* * *

 _"It's okay, I scared you. My fault." Her soft voice rasps, throat raw from the coughing fit that'd been ravaging her lungs. "That wasn't a good first impression, I'm sorry."_

 _She reaches a hand out, then, bony fingers trembling just from the effort of holding themselves aloft. He can smell the sickness on her, fainter than that first week but still enough to tempt his predatory instinct. She is weak. Easy prey._

 _He doesn't, though. Or, it's more like he can't. Not when she's looking at him like that, golden eyes all scrunched up from the toothachingly sweet smile she's giving him. Who is this woman? Smelling of disease yet so bravely entering the beast's lair?_

 _Before he even knows it, those delicate fingers touch onto the tip of his snout, so gentle and light he could believe it to be work of moths. His eyes narrow, and a warning growl begins to rumble from his maw only for her soothing tone to stop him._

 _"There now, is this okay?" She asks, voice indicating a caution more towards his comfort than for her own safety._

 _Phobos hisses at her heels, though as he looks down at the little pink one, it's clear the sound is meant more for him than this reckless woman. The meaning is loud and clear: 'Give her a chance.'_

 _And so he does._

 _She begins to scratch along his scales, somehow knowing exactly the right spots. Her fingers dance along the places his short arms can never reach, easing tickling itches he didn't even realize he had. It's heaven. It's divine. His master is really the only person that dares lavish such attention on him and it's no secret how busy he usually is._

 _Maybe… more hands to pet him is something he can tolerate. For now, at least._

 _He relaxes then, sinking down to relax on his belly as a whoosh of air pushes from his nostrils in a sigh. Something about the noise amuses her, and she laughs such a sweet sound that makes him grumble._

 _"See, I knew you were sweet. Big, sweet Deimos. Just needs a little loving."_

 _He… likes the sound of that. No one has ever called him sweet before, especially not someone who should be called that herself. He lets her pet all the way up to his eyes, marveling at how she approaches him and touches all along his fearsome maw without even a hint of apprehension._

 _It's only when she reaches his eye level that she stops, flashing him another one of those sugary smiles that makes her pale eyes scrunch up at the corners. "I just want to be your friend, okay?"_

 _And as the warmth radiating from her begins to melt his icy, reptilian heart, he can't help but rumble in acceptance._

* * *

That moment was the one that started it all. He's grown so desperately fond of her ever since then, the human that approaches and touches him without a single shred of fear in her eyes. She'd been so small then. Sickly and thin and pale. _Still_ pale, but not so much like his underbelly after not having seen the sun in weeks anymore.

Sickly, though? Barring the sensitivity of her lungs, "weak" or "sickly" are the last things he would call her. Even as often as she loses, seeing her spar with Daz on the other side of the hold has shown her that she's more than a fearsome enough fighter.

The painful sounding cough she makes right as he thinks that begs otherwise, though. His heart drops at the noise. It really didn't sound good, a bit too wet for his liking. Had he hurt her worse than he thought? Is she actually injured? Her wheezing has since settled down but neither has she made any move to rise.

' _I'm sorry, little Shrike.'_ His crackling attempts to tell her, each sound laced with a whine expressing remorse and concern. He can only hope the intent comes through, that she gets the sentiment and understands it was an accident just like that time before…

But understanding has long since flown the nest, even before she stepped off the ship.

And that this Shrike is a far cry from that gentle waif that had snuck into his lair to give him a nice pet.

His only warning is a single sound of disgust. It's guttural and feral, pitching upward into a snarl at the end that has him tipping his snout downward to get a glance at her face.

Putting him in the perfect spot for the fist she already has cocked and flying his way.

It hits him right at the edge of his eye.

His vision explodes into stars, and pain radiates all up and down the side of his cranium. A cross between a yelp and a roar cracks from his throat like a peal of thunder as he rears up and away. He scuttles backward, snout swaying side to side in a desperate bid to ease the hurt still blinding him but nothing helps.

She's snarling at him all the while, spitting words he doesn't know the meaning of but the acid forming them is enough for him to understand.

"-just as bad as the rest of the traitors!"

His vision returns just in time to see her approaching. To see the way her knuckles clench into a fist hard enough her entire arm shakes. The sight of it alone hurts worse than the pain itself does.

For even in her terrible anger, even with her hurtful tone earlier, never for a single second did Deimos ever consider that _Shrike_ would ever hurt him. Not her. Not the gentle, sweet girl that brings him snacks and treats him like a puppy, of all things.

But as he backs up towards the water, retreating away from the woman glaring nothing but hatred and death at him, he realizes that… that's still true.

Shrike would never hit him.

This woman is someone, _something_ , else.

He turns, leaping back into the water with a heart full of despair, only able to think about where that girl with the sad eyes and warm smile has gone.

And who the monster that's replaced her is.


End file.
